


Knock, Knock

by charmedtomeetyou



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 114,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmedtomeetyou/pseuds/charmedtomeetyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan has made the best of her crappy apartment ever since she became best friends with her neighbor, Ruby. But when Ruby moves out and a loud Brit takes her place, the thin walls and lack of space are suddenly not so endearing. After a particularly stressful day, Emma decides to confront the nightmare next door, and entirely against her better judgment, she might just be making a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not So Nice To Meet You

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the backstory: I just moved into an apartment with really thin walls. And I'm talking REALLY thin. I can hear the guy next door breathing. And snoring. And yelling profanities at his friend. And... other things. So I thought hmmmm how could I take this crappy situation and make it better? Easy. Turn in into CS and everything will be OK! So this happened.

_Look on the bright side_ , Mary Margaret said.

 _A least you have a job and a place to live other than your old yellow Bug_ , she said.

 _At least you have friends and people who love you,_ she said.

Mary Margaret. That damn woman and her insufferable fucking optimism. Emma had _just_ let herself start enjoying her silly, cheap apartment with her sad, thin walls. She’d _just_ started calling her obnoxious neighbor Ruby one of her very closest friends; she’d _just_ started considering the sounds of Ruby’s toilet and television and late-night phone conversations to be the sounds of _home_ and the damn stupid girl finally lets down her Fort Knox fucking walls and decides to move in with the doctor she’d been “just screwing” and left Emma far behind. As fucking usual. It wasn’t Ruby’s fault. In fact, in all honesty, Emma was truly happy for her friend. Happy that she was happy, of course. But also happy because it gave Emma a sense of hope much deeper than Mary Margaret’s (well meaning) platitudes. Ruby finding happiness despite her painful past made Emma believe maybe she could do the same herself. Possibly. Someday.

But that didn’t make the sting of losing Ruby any less painful. And worse, it didn’t do anything to alleviate the absolute agony of having to cope with a new neighbor.

A loud, _British_ neighbor who screamed bloody fucking murder at _soccer_ games and had way too many gruff friends crammed in his living room every other goddamn night – burping and snorting and hee-hawing and overall making Emma wish for the days she was sleeping in the backseat of a half-broken car in the middle of a snowstorm.

 _But maybe he could end up being your friend_ , Mary Margaret said. _Why don’t you introduce yourself instead of angry-texting me about him?_ she said.

Fucking Mary Margaret and her stupid, idiotic optimism. _No._

Emma threw herself back into her work – bail bondsperson-ing required a surprising amount of paperwork and googling – doing all she could to ignore the existence of the British bastard and all his stupid noises.

And she was successful, mostly. That is, until she started to hear some huffing and a little grunting and the telltale bounce of springs.

 _Fuck_. This was something she was absolutely _not_ going to listen to. Guess she was going to have to meet the asshole after all.

Emma stomped out of her apartment, rounded the small corner from apartment 2 to apartment 3, ready to snap on him and whatever bimbo was riding him.

Bang, bang, _bang_. She rapped on his door with a balled fist, almost sorry he didn’t have any glass windows on the outside she could crack.

“What in the bloody hell – ” The disgruntled, frustrated, shirtless, _goddamn hot_ man answered his door, hair a mess and bright blue eyes furrowed in anger.

Emma wasn’t all _that_ surprised he was good looking. His voice was smooth and he sounded pretty personable (if you actually _wanted_ to listen to him, that is), but she was not about to let herself (her hormones) distract her from her annoyance that this jackass couldn’t possible respect the unspoken _thin-walls-so-at-least-try-to-muffle-awkward-noises_ rule.

So she gave him an earful.

“You. I know you’re new to the building and think you’re fucking God or something, but _surprise_! You’re not the only person in this building and let’s just say if you can hear me typing then I can hear you fucking and I’m _really_ not into that tonight. So if you could at least put some loud music on, playboy? I’d appreciate it. And maybe warn me next time. Ruby and I had a knocking system. A loud _knock knock_ on my bedroom wall if you’re about to get frisky so I can grab some headphones, ‘kay?”

Before the man could respond, she turned on her heel, scurried back to her apartment, grabbed her keys, and drove to Mary Margaret’s. She and David would appreciate an unexpected dinner guest, right?

(And, yes, this was her running away. Shit happens; give her a break.)

-

Killian stood absolutely dumbstruck. _Fuckstruck_ was rather more like it. If possible, his cock, already straining against the waistband of his sweatpants, had gotten even _harder_. And on top of it, he was truly embarrassed to all hell.

Because his beautiful, fierce, amazing neighbor (whom he honestly assumed to be a hermit – he hadn’t seen her in the many weeks he’d lived there) apparently could hear every sound he made. _Every_ sound. Including the heavy breathing that was resulting from jerking himself off in his bedroom.

Bloody buggering _fuck_. He knew that once in a while he could hear tiny sounds from her apartment – pots and pans falling, a few loud expletives, and, yes, now that he thought about it, he could recall hearing typing when he was particularly quiet on his end, but he honestly hadn’t realized exactly how _thin_ the walls truly were.

After all, he was usually surrounded by friends and football and music and basically anything to keep his mind off any actual problems or feelings. Will had insisted on distractions, really, had said it was the only way to deal with a broken heart (that wouldn’t land you in jail, anyway).

Killian was still reeling from the loss of his Milah, the heart attack they’d never seen coming (she was young, too young), and he actually hadn’t any – ahem – _relief_ since her death. And of fucking course the first time he wraps his fingers around his dick, the most beautiful woman he’s seen since Milah is on the other side of the wall, angry that his sounds of pleasure are interrupting her evening.

Fucking _hell_. If Killian didn’t have bad luck he’d have no luck at all.

Despite being harder than should be possible, he was still entirely _not_ in the mood – he couldn’t have her _hearing_ him – so he decided to take apart the entertainment center. And put it back together again.

Then he went for a run.

And then lifted some weights.

And took apart a few chairs, losing some screws along the way (making it impossible to reassemble without a quick trip to the hardware store).

And finally, after hours of as much physical exertion he could muster, he finally stripped off his clothes and collapsed into bed, mildly comforted when he heard the sounds of his lovely neighbor returning from wherever it was she’d apparently run after tearing him a new one.

With his own apartment uncharacteristically silent, he heard every move she made – he heard her kick her shoes off, heard her keys clink into what sounded like a ceramic mug, heard her coat fall into a heap on some kind of hard surface. He heard her tea kettle bubbling, her computer roaring to life, her drawers opening and closing as she changed her clothes and slumped into bed. She was typing furiously, obviously doing more than crushing candy or browsing Facebook, and he couldn’t help but want to imagine everything there was no know about her.

And he didn’t even know her name.

It’s not as if he was in love – _fuckstruck_ is all it was. She was beautiful and she had attitude and he just wanted to know _more_. Embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t let the opportunity just pass him by. So he rose from his bed and sat in his desk chair, breathing out the last of his cowardice.

 _Knock, knock, knock_.

-

The other side of her wall – the _noisy_ British side – had been quiet when she’d gotten home. Maybe the bastard had finally decided to go attend a party at a different establishment instead of hosting them at his own? Ugh, _finally._

Until those three assured, intentional knocks resounded through their shared wall.

Seriously. _Seriously_? He couldn’t have just finished with the funny business in all that time she was gone? Mary Margaret had been happy to see her, despite the initial neighbor-bashing rant, so she’d stayed for four hours at least.

Who possibly has the stamina to fuck longer than four hours?

Guess all she could do was ask.

“Seriously?” she called through the wall. “Who the hell do you have in there who isn’t satisfied yet? I was gone for hours.”

She heard a chuckle and the creaking of a chair against the hardwood (fucking hardwood, making everything _louder_ ).

“My apologies, milady, but I wasn’t trying to alert you of any upcoming amorous activities. I merely wanted to… gain your attention. I feel as if we got off on the wrong foot earlier.”

“ _Ha_. At least you _got off_ ,” she huffed, before she could possible think twice and _not_ sound desperately sexually frustrated. _For Christ’s sake, Emma. Have some damn dignity_.

His responding chuckle was even louder. “Actually, I didn’t do that either. I was a bit embarrassed. Honestly, I hadn’t realized the walls were so thin. The second you stormed out of my doorway I wanted to dig myself a nice deep hole to climb in and die.”

At that, Emma began loosening up.

 _Maybe he’s not so bad_ , Mary Margaret’s voice echoed in her head.

But who could luck out and make a friend of both neighbors? Emma felt as if she’d hit the apartment jackpot when Ruby swept in an introduced herself, bottle of Apple Crown Royal in her hands. Could this obnoxious asshole maybe be almost tolerable?

Highly unlikely.

And yet, she found herself shouting through her wall, “I’m Emma, by the way.”

“Killian,” he replied, knocking three times.

She knocked three times in response, and thus began the world's strangest friendship.


	2. All the Reasons Not to Kill You

Let’s get one thing clear: he was still loud as fuck. And annoying. And so… British. He and his _mates_ would watch _football_ and have a rousing, jolly good time while Emma was just trying to sort through records to figure out if this bail-skipping douchebag might be living in his old neighborhood again.

But it was OK. They had a signal for that, she and Killian. One loud knock followed by three in rapid succession meant _if you don’t fucking quiet down I might murder you and make it look like an accident_. So she knocked and he called back, “sorry, love!” and suddenly the chuckles weren’t so loud and Emma didn’t feel like she was _on_ the damn soccer field and she finished up her research and went straight to bed.

Successful night.

But that’s not what _all_ the nights were like. No, more often than not Killian Jones, annoying British male-model looking neighbor, would insert himself into her evening, even through a wall.

She’d be sitting at her computer, browsing Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest and all other manners of social time-sucks when she’d hear a bellow from the middle of the neighbor’s study.

“Swan! Are you over there?”

“Yes, Killian, I know damn well you heard me flush my toilet five minutes ago.”

“Well, obviously, but I was trying to be _polite_ ,” he’d shouted with as little politeness as he could muster (all in jest, of course, all in jest, he’d say).

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Captain America or Captain Hook, love?”

Her mind drummed up images of Chris Evans, all muscle and hair and piercing blue eyes, standing next to a cartoon with a perm and a bad mustache. _That’s hardly a contest_.

“Um, might I ask why exactly?” she’d shouted back.

“For the business, Swan! I need a _thing_. A gimmick, you know. People need themes and silly fodder to excite them.”

Emma stared toward his voice through the wall, confused to all hell about what kind of _business_ he could possibly be referring to. “What, do you work for Disney or something?”

He scoffed (exaggeratedly, the bastard) and called back, “no, but Disney is good for business. So here’s the question: do I go _pirate_ or do I go _hero_? I am a Captain, after all, so I need to choose. Would the women folk fancy an old timey good guy or a dashing rapscallion?”

“I don’t see the women fancying _you_ at all,” she lied ( _such_ a fucking lie. That man was sex on legs, probably the hottest man she’d ever seen outside a television screen and she’d be lying even _further_ if she said she hadn’t imagined at least one tiny little moment of those piercing blue eyes of _his_ looking up at her from between her legs).

She rolled her eyes at her own feigned sass. “I suppose it would probably be entertaining to see you with a waxed mustache and a feather in your cap, so I vote Captain Hook.”

“Oh, my dearest neighbor. You’re mistaken about Captain Hook’s true identity. He’s not that laughable cartoon. He’s a leather-clad ladies’ man, a world-class flirt, a seeker of treasure in gold and in the sparkling eyes of a woman.”

Emma ignored the little spark of warmth in her downstairs at imagining her neighbor in such a way and deflected. “Like you could pull that off. Go with Steve Rogers. If he can bag Peggy Carter, then he’s obviously the man you want to emulate.”

It wasn’t until a few days later that she actually thought to ask what the fuck kind of business required a kitschy captain persona.

_Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock. Knock. Knock._ (Their alert for a _question_.)

“Jones!”

“Yes, Swan?”

“What are you?”

A pause. “Straight? British? A Sagittarius? I’m not sure of the question, love.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your job. What do you _do_?”

“Oh, darling, I think we need to know each other a little better before I reveal such a private detail of my life.”

“Of course, _captain_.”

He caved about ten minutes after that, knocking back over and spilling his whole work history. Used to work on Wall Street. Had a change of heart ( _failed relationship_ , Emma was about 95% sure, but he was vague as all hell so who actually knows) and moved to Storybrooke to make a full time business of his fancy sailboat. Sailing lessons. Passenger excursions.

He spoke of his boat ( _No, Swan, it’s a ship_ ) with such passion, such devotion, like he truly possessed treasure. Despite the bravado and the projected swagger, Killian Jones was capable of love.

(A man with a heart? Not likely.)

“I was wrong,” Emma said after a long silence between the wall. “Go with the pirate.”

-

The beautiful neighbor was becoming a problem. For as much as his own noise bothered _her_ , it was her silence that bothered him. Emma Swan… to that woman he was inexplicably addicted. He looked every day for something to call through the wall, anything to get her talking. It wasn’t that she was just pretty – after all, when they spoke he could only attempt to recreate her beauty in his mind as several layers of drywall separated them – she was a _force_.

He flirted, of course, but it didn’t _mean_ anything. He just enjoyed getting a rise out of her, enjoyed the way he could imagine her unimpressed face as she rejected his mock-advances.

_Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock. Knock. Knock._

“Swan! What can you substitute in a recipe when you run out of vegetable oil?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Google it, Jones. Just because I have ovaries doesn’t mean I was built with cooking skills.”

_Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock. Knock. Knock._

“Where’s the nearest movie theater?”

“Three blocks away, dumbass. You pass it on the way to the marina. You should probably get your head out of your ass while navigating town, _captain_.”

_Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock. Knock. Knock._

“Swan! Why are Americans so interested in reality television.”

“Because real reality is depressing so we made up a new reality. It’s an art form, really.”

That remark lacked her trademark sarcasm – in fact she almost sounded _sad_.

“Long day today, Emma?”

“Oh, it’s _Emma_ now? I assumed you forgot my first name.”

“Nothing about you is forgettable, love.”

 

The days went on that way, Killian usually orchestrating some reason to shout at her, the two of them trying to manage the difficulties of being able to hear every single sound made by the other. He got to know her through her phone calls to her brother (yes, he was an eavesdropper). And he liked to think she might have gotten to know him through his conversations with his mates. Robin and Will came over quite often (considering their long drive) still hell bent on making sure Killian was distracted.

The boys didn’t often remark on the fairly obvious fact that Killian was friendly with the neighbor, and for that he was thankful. For all he enjoyed her company, her presence, her witty retorts, the last thing he wanted was for her to become just a _distraction_. And were Robin and Will to know just how wonderful she was, there was no way they wouldn’t suggest using her to help him _move on_.

He didn’t fancy using anyone (it wouldn’t be good form). But he’d certainly never use _her_.

So when he knocked four times to signal it was time for football, he was thankful she just knocked once in thanks – because Robin had a glint in his eye suggesting he was itching to invite her over to see the disembodied voice for himself.

(He wouldn’t let his mates ruin their reluctant friendship.)

(Or himself, for that matter.)

-

On the days he was being particularly obnoxious, she’d turn on _Game of Thrones_ and really just _blast_ it. He couldn’t stand it, hated the gore and the greed and the “right idiocy.”

So he’d be whistling along at his computer like a fucking dwarf and she’d lightly tap on the wall to signal he _stop_ and he’d just keep on doing it (she could imagine a devilish smile on his handsome face) so she’d pull up HBO Go and choose a particularly violent one and just let it _play_.

“I give! I give!” he shouted as the screams of the Red Wedding finally got to him and she clicked the TV off with a self-satisfied grin and a little mark in the _win_ column in the Battle for Apartment Power Against the Annoying British Guy (BAPAABG) (her label when talking to Ruby or Mary Margaret).

(She was _so_ winning.)

Except the days she was _losing_. And not because she couldn’t stand Flogging Molly or Will’s sexist jokes or the way he couldn’t seem to wash his dishes without smashing one (and cursing like he’d crashed a fucking car). No, some days the weight of losing Ruby was just too much.

OK, yeah, she didn’t _lose_ Ruby. But Ruby _got_ her. Ruby knew when Emma’s cases hit too close to home (abandoned kids, girlfriends left to take the fall for shitty, lying boyfriends, abusive parental figures, blah blah _blah_ ). Ruby would let her walk in and plop down on her couch and just _be_ there. She knew Emma wasn’t a hugger but she’d hug her anyway and make her hot cocoa with cinnamon and would let her rant about strangers, knowing damn well Emma was ranting about her own demons and never once forcing her to say any more than she wanted to.

Ruby was her rock, the only friend she ever made that didn’t involve her (foster) brother.

And now she was left with a sad echo of a replacement friend, just a voice through the wall.

Killian _was_ her friend. She knew this. She needed his voice and his laughter and his shameless flirting to get through her days. She needed to taunt him with Game of Thrones just like he seemed to need to ask her everything there was to know about the Americans’ relationship to bald fucking eagles. But it wasn’t the same. And it never would be the same.

Because letting in Killian Jones was a bad idea.

-

It was probably a bad idea.

He knew Emma was hesitant to speak to him, to know him – most importantly, to let him know her. So Killian should just turn back around and hide in his room and maybe pick on her affinity for Coldplay in an hour or so, once she calmed down. Her walls – and not the ones that separated their apartments –  were thick and tall as a castle. He should just let her be.

(To be that closed off, he suspected she was burned by love in a way much more painful than death. Death is without choice – and _choosing_ to leave someone would indeed leave them with a hole far more jagged in their chest, he’d wager.)

But he wasn’t trying to win her heart. He wasn’t even trying to get in her pants. He was just trying to ensure her that she wasn’t alone.

(He’d heard an argument with her brother, one that made absolutely no sense, and he realized how familiar it was. Picking a fight with a loved one (over nothing more than what sounded like his choice in restaurant for an upcoming gathering) was a sign of something _else_. (Something Milah had done, too, when she’d have a particularly bad day.)

And the heavy breathing he could hear after she slammed down her phone – it wasn’t the erotic kind. Emma was about to cry or panic or possibly scream.

So he cooked her a pizza. And now he was on his way to her door to greet her with it.

(Like any true friend would do.)

But like the coward he knew he could be, instead of taking the chance to climb her walls, to be her not-just-through-the-wall friend, he _ding-dong-ditched_ and left the pizza outside her door.

Once back in his own apartment, he could hear her shuffling out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, her door opening with a loud creak. A few more footsteps and he heard the pan drop to the counter with a tiny _thud_ , a disbelieving chuckle coming from Emma like a cough.

_He_ chuckled to himself in response when he realized he’d completely pressed himself against the wall, listening for her every noise, cataloguing the sounds of the pizza cutter and the shuffling plates.

Funny thing, though: he missed her gentle footfalls as she must have reentered her bedroom and instead was startled practically out of his _skin_ as she banged on the wall just to the left of his ear.

_Knock-knock-knock, knock, knock_.

He paused, rubbing his offended ear. “I’m sorry love, I don’t recognize that knocking pattern. Is it one we’ve previously established?”

“Nope, it’s brand new.” She called back. “It means _pizza fairy arrived; come over and get some_.”

“And by _get some_ , you’re referring to…?”

“Pizza, you perv. Are you coming back or not?”

Killian didn’t _sprint_ exactly, but he certainly made haste to Emma’s door, and for the very first time, his own _knock, knock, knock_  was answered with the smiling (slightly sauce covered) face of his _friend_ Emma Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will get longer as the story gets more meat.


	3. F is for Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive delay in this. Life gets weird. And this show is super bumming me out and I feel about as tortured as Killian looks, so I'm going to start updating every Monday to combat the sadness. Hope you enjoy!

Goal number one was simple: don’t have a fucking panic attack.

She was genuinely grateful for the pizza. It was a delicious distraction and she’d been too down on herself and her own stupid shitty life to remember that she’d need to feed herself at some point that night. So the food was probably the best surprise she could possibly ask for.

Which was absolutely terrifying. Because that meant that she’d let the annoying neighbor in just enough that he knew when she was upset and inexplicably _cared_ enough to try to remedy that, which meant that she might have made an actual real-life friend who kind of knew her and that was just way too much to handle.

So she shouldn’t let him in any further. Metaphorically or literally. She should eat the cheesy yumminess and maybe call over a polite thank you and then go to the library to do her work for the night so he wouldn’t have the chance to translate her emotional state from the minute sounds coming from her stupid, tiny apartment.

She chuckled aloud, a nervous tick of hers, as she realized that there was something far too addicting about having someone that _gets_ you. She’d just been missing Ruby for that exact thing, hadn’t she? Unfortunately for Emma’s pride, Mary Margaret’s infuriating optimism wasn’t always as misguided as she accused.

Sometimes… well, sometimes it might just be the best thing there was.

So she did the unthinkable and invited the idiot over.

(It was only fair. He’d cooked the pizza. Shouldn’t he get to enjoy some?)

Yeah, that excuse worked for about four fucking seconds until he rapped lightly at the door and she swung it open and the absolute glee on his face was threatening to break his damn jaw and she was helpless to resist smiling in return and part of her actually felt like tiny cracks in her soul were being patched with the sheer force of his friendship and goddamnit this was such a bad idea.

“Come on in, you weirdo,” she said, using every ounce of energy to try to sound casual.

(She failed.)

-

It would appear that it wasn’t a mistake after all. No, for once it seemed like Killian had made an actual sound decision that had led to the intended results: putting a smile on the face of his wonderful, sweet, snarky, brilliant, badass, _fun_ neighbor.

Was his bad luck finally running out?

Probably not. But he’d enjoy this little respite regardless how brief it might be.

She shoved a plate in his hand before he could react – a stack of three slices haphazardly thrown on top of it – as she turned back toward her fridge.

“Beer?” she asked, two bottles already in her hand.

He nodded, stupidly unable to speak for probably the first time in his life.

She used one of the beers to point at her couch, her upturned eyebrow a clear indication of her amusement at his odd silence.

He nervously shifted on the couch as she plopped down next to him, popping open the bottles with a _Storybrooke Brewing Company_ opener. “Sorry, love, I’m fairly certain I must be dreaming right now so I’m a bit disoriented.”

“You’ve dreamed of sitting on my lumpy couch? Kinda creepy, Jones,” she said, her mouth hilariously full of cheese and pepperoni.

“Well, alas, I haven’t dreamed about this in _particular_. But you must admit it’s just a little surreal to be speaking face to face. Without you yelling at me, that is.”

“Now that you’ve learned to warn me before touching yourself, I’m far less likely to yell at you. So… good job.” She licked a bit of sauce from the space between her top lip and her nose, her face slightly flushing at the mention of his self-pleasure.

(They’d worked that out very quickly, the _knock, knock_ between their walls a warning that the other should _probably_ put on some headphones to keep from hearing something they’d rather not. Killian was loathe to admit that it disappointed him that she’d never used that particular warning herself, but that was entirely _not_ the point.)

“Well a man has needs, darling.”

“Yeah, well so do women. And I… needed this pizza. So. _Thanks_.”

It was the first time since walking in her door minutes before that he remembered why he’d done this at all. She’d been sad, been _suffering_. And those emotions finally broke through her features, the pain in her expression physically painful for him to witness.

And he didn’t know why she was sad or angry or upset. He didn’t know if someone hurt her, if she hurt someone else, if there was anything he could do to help even if he _tried_. But what he _did_ know was that it would be pushing his luck by _far_ to expect she might let him in any further than she had already. She was careful and she was scared and he wasn’t about to risk losing her newly cemented real-life, not-through-the-walls friendship, so he figured deflection and humor was his only option at this point.

“Well I’d be happy to see to any _other_ needs you might have as well.” He waggled his eyebrows as silly/seductively as possible and that grin he’d become addicted to in a matter of a few slices of pizza returned with a vengeance.

“Keep dreaming,” she choked out, rolling her eyes as the tension rolled off her shoulders and Killian (internally) patted himself on the back for not fucking up this wonderful thing he had going for him. A friend who never knew Milah, who hadn’t sat next to him at her funeral, who didn’t watch him nearly drink himself to death in the months after she passed. Oh, yes, tonight was about Emma’s happiness and about being there for _her_ , but he knew he’d be reaping the benefits of their friendship just as much as her and he _knew_ it.

“I wouldn’t dare, love. It’s bad form to imagine a woman without her permission. Even subconsciously.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re a gentleman?”

“I’m always a gentleman.”

“I thought you were a pirate.”

“Oh I am.” He waggled his eyebrows again and reached for her TV remote. “What do you say, love, care to watch some _Jessica Jones_?”

“That’s a bit dark for you, don’t you think?” she asked, snatching the remote out of his hands. “Why don’t we start with something a little more tame?”

And that’s how he ended up watching Disney’s _Peter Pan_ alongside the most beautiful woman alive, her surprisingly melodic voice singing along with “I Won’t Grow Up” as she drew a curly mustache on his upper lip with a black magic marker.

-

It was all very immature. She should be embarrassed. Ashamed. Handing in her membership card to the Functioning Adult club.

But she was the happiest she’d been in _years_.

Just don’t tell that to Mary Margaret.

Because Mary Margaret was like a mother to her. And she cared for her and helped her back on to her feet after her life came crashing down around her all those years ago. And she _had_ been appreciative of that. And _happy_ even.

But this was an entirely different kind of happy. She felt light and fluffy and carefree. She felt like the baggage in her life wasn’t just forgiven, it didn’t fucking _matter_. For once, it was like It had never happened at all.

Even though she knew – _knew_ – Killian’s baggage was probably just as heavy as hers. Heavier even. The two of them probably wouldn’t even be _allowed_ on a plane with all the shit they were carrying. But between the weeks-long wall-banter and this one glorious night of ridiculousness, she was quickly realizing this man was probably going to be her very best friend in this entire crazy world.

(Which is another reason she can’t tell Mary Margaret. _Smugness_ always sounds so much worse when it’s a Disney fucking Princess sing-songing it at you.)

(Seriously, she could just _hear_ her kind-of-sister-in-law’s voice in her head, the melody of _someday my prince will come_ replaced with the lyrics, _I told you so Em-maaaa._ )

She mentally slapped away the cartoon taunting in her brain and refocused on her current task – de-sex-ifying her insanely hot neighbor.

Yeah, that’s what her life has come to. The only person she feels like she can entirely be herself around, she also can imagine being fully _inside_ her as she pants and moans and that’s just _not conducive to maintaining a friendship_.

So halfway through _Peter Pan_ when Killian had the nerve to start talking like a pirate and she started to feel some little tinglies between her legs, she decided she needed to somehow erase the Jack Sparrow-style Killian from her mind in the only way she could think.

She Captain Hooked him.

And, yeah, touching his skin made her a little bit warm inside and it’s not as if you could make the annoying neighbor less attractive with nothing but marker, but hey, it at least helped take her mind off it.

So they sang and she giggled and he broke off a coat hanger to serve as a hook and she popped open beer after beer until the two drunk neighbors bid each other goodnight once at her door (with an exploding fist bump) and again through the wall (with a knock-knock-knock-knock-knock).

-

_The hangover was well worth it._

That’s what he chanted to himself over and over as he drank his Tabasco sauce/raw egg concoction and banged on his bedroom wall (wincing to himself, of course, because _ouch_ ).

He could hear Emma groaning but she was neither rising nor shining so thirty seconds later he was banging on her door, smiling at the muffled profanity coming from the other side.

“What the fuck, Killian?” She squealed as she whipped open the door, scowling (adorably). Were you missing my yelling so much you felt the need to incite me?”

“No, but I’m miserable and misery loves company. And since my misery is _your_ fault, I’ve decided you’re going to be my company, aye?”

“Go _aye_ yourself, mister. I didn’t pour the beer down your damn throat.”

“No, but you _did_ fail to mention that the marker you used on my face was _permanent_ and this ridiculous stain on my face is contributing to my sour mood. So. I’d be happy to bang some pots and pans to get you _really_ feeling like shit.”

She finally looked at him right in the face, likely noticing the mustache that just wouldn’t disappear (no matter how long he scrubbed), simultaneously chuckling and grasping at her aching brain.

“Fine. I’m up. I’m miserable. Can I please go shower now?”

Killian quirked an eyebrow up, noting the very _easy_ jokes he could make, but Emma cut him off before he could decide which one was best.

“Don’t even. I’ll talk to you when I’m human.”

And three hours later she knocked the _question_ pattern on his bedroom wall, his answering bellow coming just seconds later. “How can I help you, love?”

“Want to get some lunch? This hangover is craving grilled cheese.”

He was thankful for once that there was a wall between them so he didn’t have to hide the goofy grin he _knew_ he was sporting.

“Oh, I suppose so.”

-

She should have _known_ Granny’s was a bad idea. But her stupid hangover goggles saw nothing but grilled cheese and onion rings and cinnamon hot chocolate, didn’t even consider other risks.

Risks like _Ruby_.

The proprietor of this particular establishment might go by _Granny_ to the entire town, but only Ruby was actually biologically her _granddaughter_. In addition to being a substitute waitress. And a frequent customer. So of _course_ she was here, busting her _Killian-and-Emma_ bubble and opening herself up to all kinds of fun interrogation.

(And opening up Killian, too.)

“So you’re my replacement, I take it?” Ruby purred, caressing Killian’s leather-clad arm and not at all making Emma’s jaw clench in anything resembling jealousy.

“Ahhh, I’m sure no one can replace you in Swan’s life. But, yes, I’m the one who now lives in your apartment.”

“Yes, and Mary Margaret tells me Emma hates you with – and I quote – the _fire of a thousand suns_. Kind of funny you’re at lunch together then, right?”

Well, at least Emma’s distaste for Killian in the beginning had been well-known by the poor Brit or Mary Margaret would have been responsible for yet _another_ spilled secret.

“I believe Emma would likely tell you that she’s warmed up to me a bit. It’s more like just the fire of _one_ sun she hates me with now, wouldn’t you say, love?” Killian looked to her with his flirty little glint and she made a mental note to tell him to cut that shit out in front of people who _weren’t_ her and might misunderstand. Because ohhhh would Ruby misunderstand this one.

“Give me some credit, Jones. I don’t give up my hatred that quickly. It’s at least ten suns. But maybe ten _smallish_ ones.”

“Ah, see? She’s warming to me.”

Ruby interrogated him on his job and his hobbies and his friends (“Ruby, it doesn’t matter if they’re single since _you’re not_ ” “I have to keep my options open!”). By the time Granny brought out their food, Ruby knew about as many facts about her neighbor as _she_ did and it would be disconcerting if she weren’t solidly OK with the budding friendship between herself and Killian.

Or, well, she _was_ until Killian excused himself to the restroom and Ruby _pounced_.

“Why aren’t you climbing that shit like a tree?” Ruby shrieked the second he was out of earshot.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, missy. He’s so hot I want to cry. And since I’m being all _monogamous_ these days, I’m going to need you to bang him for me and then tell me about it. Secondhand banging is sufficient in this case, I think. He’s _that_ hot. Even with the weird marker lines on his face.”

Emma _knew_ her face was turning red, whether from anger or embarrassment she really wasn’t sure.

“It’s not _like_ that, Ruby. We’re friends. And before you suggest I change that or take advantage of any benefits, please remember how rare it is that I call someone my friend and how important that it is to me that I keep him around. You know how much I needed you,” she continued, stopping only to draw a breath (and maybe some courage). And now I kind of need him. Got it?”

She avoided direct eye contact with Ruby, but looked toward her face for just a moment, attempting to convey the importance of her words. Because they were _important_.

“Sure, Emma. But let me tell you, that man wants to fuck your brains out. And I’m putting money down that he _will_. Repeatedly, I hope, for your sake.”

Emma saw Killian ducking back into the diner from the back hallway, gently wiping his hands on his jeans as their eyes connected.

“Shut it, Ruby. My pants are staying _on_.”

With that Killian sat back down and the conversation resumed to normal, friendly topics. Killian asked Ruby about her boyfriend ( _oh he’s anything but a boy, if you know what I mean_ ) and Emma talked about Mary Margaret and David’s last disastrous attempt at game night, which ended in Emma being scarred for life as she witnessed them far more than _making tacos_.

The three of them laughed and chatted – like they were all old friends and not just accidental neighbors – until Ruby finally needed to excuse herself for a work meeting. They said their goodbyes and Ruby absolutely copped a feel while she was hugging Killian (winking at Emma just to prove it was intentional).

And just as Emma was about to breathe a sigh of relief that Hurricane Ruby had passed, the human storm turned back at them and smiled wolfishly. “Oh, Killian! Tonight is karaoke night down at the Rabbit Hole. I already signed Emma up. Do you sing? We’d loooove to have you. You could even bring a friend. Or two. Could be fun!”

Killian’s eyes went wide with surprise, looking to Emma immediately as if to ask permission.

(Not that he needed her permission. She wasn’t his mother; she wasn’t his wife. Neighbors were free to answer as they pleased.)

And after a somewhat awkward fifteen seconds of silence, Killian nodded his head. I might stop by. Anything to hear Emma sing something _not_ performed by Peter Pan.”

“Maybe she’ll even sing a duet with you, Killian. Unless she’d prefer one with me, of course,” Ruby chuckled and wiggled her fingers in a cheerful goodbye. “See you lovelies tonight!”

-

It was a little ridiculous how nervous he was.

Not to be spending time with Emma and her friends. No, he felt weirdly at ease about that. Robin had come along and was spending a lot of time chatting with Ruby’s friend Regina at the bar. Will was on his way (supposedly – he was a big proponent of ditching friends if opportunities for sex arose elsewhere, so he might never show at all). Ruby’s boyfriend, Victor, was quite funny (though he did look a bit zombie-like, which was distracting) and Emma was clearly having a good time with her friends.

Whatever had been bothering her the night before, he hadn’t detected a single hint of it today. One check in the win column for _Operation: Distract Emma from Things That Upset Her_.

What he was _nervous_ for was the karaoke. Yeah, he’d had a little band when he was a teenager. He’d played guitar and sang and made girls fan themselves while he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, but it had been years – _years_ – since he’d sung to more than just his showerhead.

And was it entirely ridiculous that he didn’t want to choke in front of his pretty neighbor/new friend?

-

Emma was up first and her palms were sweating. She’d downed a quick shot of rum and nervously braided a few pieces of her flowing blonde hair until finally they called her name and she really thought she might vomit. So of course she did another quick (double) shot before bouncing up on stage.

She straightened out her dress and smiled down at Ruby and Victor and Killian, moving her hips with the opening beats of her very favorite song.

_Ooooooh, ooooooh_

_Ooooooh, ooooooh_

_She, she ain’t real. She ain’t gon’ be able to love you like I will_

_She is a stranger. You and I have history or don’t you remember_

_Suuuuure she’s got it all. But baby is that really what you want?_

Hoots and hollers sounded from the audience and Emma’s nerves melted away, giving in to the pleasant buzz of alcohol paired with the high of performing for a packed house of (mostly) strangers.

Emma kept swinging her hips and swirling her hair and playing to the room when suddenly her eyes caught with Killian’s again and for the first time she actually noticed that _look_ Ruby had been referring to earlier.

And as if the past few weeks were all sinking in at once, she just _snapped_.

Fuck. What if all of this, the easy conversation, the _fun_ was just because he wanted in her pants and then to run far, far out of her life?

That would be her fucking luck.

She snapped her eyes away from his just as concern registered in his own – it seemed she was an open book to that loud British bastard – and she sang the rest of the song with far less enthusiasm and at _anyone_ but the blue-eyed neighbor from hell.

When the song ended she scurried off the stage, bolting toward the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. She vaguely heard the announcer calling up the next performer – one _Killian Jones_ – but after a few moments of silence, the DJ moved on to some _James_ fellow and Emma was panicking more than three shots of rum should be allowing.

Pressing herself against the sink, she ran some water over her hands, splashing just a bit onto her face. How was she this worried after one fucking day of real friendship? He’d given her no indication he was looking for anything from her. He didn’t make her talk even when he _knew_ she was upset. He practically begged her permission to even violate _her turf_ in coming here tonight. Maybe the look didn’t mean _anything_.

But what if it did?

Just as she was about to sink down to the floor to catch her breath or maybe sob, a shrill knock caught her attention.

_Knock, knock, knock-knock-knock, knock, knock._

-

It was a risk, coming to her like this.

Something had clearly spooked her, and he was incredibly worried that _something_ had been _him_.

(Guess that meant a check in the _lose_ column for his recently formed _Operation_.)

Her voice was beautiful and she’d been having such _fun_ up on the stage, all until she looked at him. So he knocked on the bathroom door, their established _question_ pattern.

And after a very tense ten seconds, Emma opened the door, obvious fear in her eyes.

So he started with some light banter. “You know, Adele has nothing on you, Swan.”

But Emma apparently wasn’t going with anything _light_. “Do you want to fuck me, Killian?”

“Uhhh, come again, love?” He was nothing if not _shocked_ by the very jarring topic of conversation he certainly never expected.

“Do you find me fuck-able? Attractive, _hot_ , whatever you want to call it. Is that something you’ve thought of? Is that why you’re nice to me?”

“I’m fairly certain there are zero straight men or gay women who _haven’t_ thought of it at least once, Emma. Have you _seen_ you?” Killian chuckled nervously, not wanting to lie to her, while still attempting to maintain some humor.

“But is that why you’re around me? Not just _do you think I’m pretty_ ,” she started, rolling her eyes and looking away. “Ruby said she could tell earlier you wanted to fuck me and then I saw the look you had while I was singing and I just need to know if this friendship thing is going to work under the assumption that I – that I won’t be taking off my clothes now. Or ever.”

“Can’t I acknowledge that I _would_ fuck you and also maintain I truly only want to be your friend? I’m just being honest. You’re beautiful and wonderful and I’m very glad you knocked on my door and yelled at me all those weeks ago. And if we’re to stay friends then I would never _ever_ try something against your wishes. I promise you that.” He paused, wary of finishing that thought or being too honest (but he did anyway). “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still have _eyes_.”

She studied his face with her half-drunken glassy panicked expression. “So you’ll keep it in your pants?”

“As long as you do,” he joked.

(Still stupidly hoping some day she might _not_.)

She exhaled deeply, relief clear on her face. “I really didn’t mean to question your motives like that. You must think I’m _crazy_.”

He didn’t hesitate to respond for even a second. “No, love, of course not. Maybe… maybe just a little bit broken. Like _me_. Don’t worry, Emma. I’ll never try to trick you into anything.” He paused, a kernel of an idea forming in his mind. “Well, that’s not true. I’m about to trick you into doing a duet with me, but I feel like that one I’ve _earned_. I missed my chance at karaoke because of you, after all…” He tried his very best puppy dog eyes, but Emma shut him down _fast_.

“Keep dreaming, buddy.”

(It only took three more shots before they were singing “Don’t Stop Believing,” not a single nervous bone in Killian’s body.)

(And absolutely the brightest smile on Emma’s face.)


	4. Accidental Benefits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy, fluffy friendship development, and light smut ahead.

It was just his fucking luck.

Everything had been going _fine_. He and Emma were friends, actual, real-life, not-just-through-a-wall _friends_. They would talk through the wall and spend evenings lounging in one another’s living rooms and they even texted when they were away from their apartments. They’d found some semblance of _normalcy_ and like the world’s biggest prat, he’d let himself hope that maybe that meant they might continue to grow closer and closer until maybe they were, you know, _together_.

Not bloody likely considering this afternoon’s most recent development.

He’d come home from work feeling so very victorious, booking almost a dozen upcoming excursions from one little open house event. He’d practically skipped through the door to his fridge, popping open a beer and plopping down on the couch in what can only be described as prideful contentment. He stared at his blank television screen for five minutes at least, just basking in his own success. Finally a few footfalls and cupboards closing from the other side (his _favorite_ side) of the wall awoke him from his little reverie.

_Emma_. He might not have too many people in the world to share this glorious news with – no one _really_ since the passing of his brother – but his feisty neighbor, she’d join him for a celebratory beer and clap him on the back like she was actually a little bit proud he was capable of doing more than annoying her to death.

So he downed his beer and crushed the can and all but sprinted to the wall between their bedrooms.

_Knock, knock, knock-knock-knock_

It was a _new_ knock – they’d never had reason to share happy news with one another before – but Killian figured it sounded properly excited and she would recognize the urgency in his ear-shattering staccato.

Except he heard nothing in return.

_Knock, knock, knock-knock-knock_

But still nothing.

There’s _no_ way she wouldn’t have heard that – unless her headphones were on. And Emma’d been working on some fairly difficult cases lately, which involved much in the un-glamorous category of research. Perhaps reaching her by phone was the best means of communication.

**Killian** : Swan, are you deaf in there? I’m trying to alert you to my exciting news!

But before Killian could even set his phone down on the back of the couch, those three little dots popped up.

**Emma** : What are you talking about? I’m not even home right now. It’s 2pm. Some of us actually WORK, you know, and don’t just sail around the bay… ;)

Not home? No, there was _definitely_ sound coming from her apartment. Even as he read that message he could hear her kitchen sink running and the sound of scraping pans.

**Killian** : Perhaps you’re being burgled then? I can hear sounds from your place.

**Emma** : Oh, that’s just Graham probably.

Graham. Graham? Who the fuck was Graham?

Killian didn’t know, but he’d wager there was nothing _just_ about any man Emma would let inside her Tower of London-esque walls.

So apparently it wasn’t that she didn’t want a relationship. It’s that she didn’t want one with _him_. Well, who could blame her?

An hour and a few beers later, Will showed up to watch the match and Killian found himself (ever-so-embarrassingly) declaring himself _friendzoned_.

Which, even in his hazy, tipsy state he _knew_ wasn’t a fair assessment. To claim a woman was friendzoning a man was to somehow suggest that he was _owed_ something more than friendship for being a decent human being and he _knew_ damn well that wasn’t the case. He truly _wanted_ to be in her friend zone because he wanted more than _anything_ to be her _friend_ , to enjoy her company and her smiles, her joys and even her sadness. She didn’t _owe_ him anything just because he was honest and kind and even a little bit funny. Hell fucking no.

But there’s something about jealousy that turns a person’s head thirty shades of _gangrene_ and he cringed as he heard himself bemoaning his shit luck that he’d find someone who seemed to restart his damn heart and she wouldn’t even give him the time of day.

(He’d regret his whiny rant; he knew it. He just couldn’t connect the nerves from his brain to his lips to make them _stop moving_.)

And, of course, Will was nothing but an enabler of his shitty attitude.

“What’s this tosser got that you don’t, mate?” Will asked, his chest huffed out and his chin in the air.

“A key to her apartment, clearly.”

-

Killian had been _weird_ when she got home that night. He was kind of drunk. Or high (did he even smoke?) Whatever it was, he was something. He was _off_ and it upset her more than she really cared to think about.

She’d grown far too accustomed to their easy friendship over the past weeks. She _shouldn’t_. She _should_ be guarding her heart far more carefully than that, because even _friend_ breakups are too much for her to handle. So it doesn’t even _matter_ if she feels a teensy bit of attraction toward him or if she’s maybe once or twice imagined maybe they were in an actual relationship and not some strange neighbor/friend amalgam. Nope, she should be far more careful than this.

But she _hasn’t_ been. She’s been binge watching old episodes of The Office with her feet in his lap. She’s been teasing him for the number of showers he takes in a day and for his odd addiction to rum raisin ice cream. She’s been complaining about her paperwork to him and listening to his stories about primary school in London and – the absolute very _worst_ thing – she’s not even kept him to herself. No, he comes over when Ruby wants to have girls’ night and he even met David for coffee one afternoon (entirely _without_ Emma) to talk about sailing and soccer.

Without her own permission, she’d let this man into her heavily guarded life and the bastard was apparently taking it for granted or throwing it back in her face because he’d barely speak with her and what kind of stupid ass _shit_ was that?

So, when he’d barely respond to her through-the-wall ramblings, she kind of somewhat ran away.

“Emma! My goodness, what are you doing here?” Mary Margaret gasped as Emma whooshed through her front door, unwrapping her scarf and kicking her shoes off on her way to the couch.

“Why do you sound so surprised? I come here all the time.”

Mary Margaret put on her _mom_ face and Emma cringed before she even spoke. “Not so much anymore, Emma. It’s been a few weeks. And by David’s account, it’s not exactly because you’ve been spending time alone.”

“And what exactly are you suggesting?” Emma asked (but delivered it more like a _statement_ ).

“I’m suggesting that perhaps I wasn’t wrong about that neighbor of yours. You really are _friends_ , aren’t you?”

At that Emma was fully prepared to run again. Ruby and Whale wouldn’t mind a visitor, right? But then she realized that for once she might need to put on her big girl panties and have an actual real-life conversation with her dearest _mother hen_ of a friend.

So Emma looked everywhere but into Mary Margaret’s eyes, exhaled deeply, and just let the uncertainty flood out. “We were. Maybe. I think? But he’s been odd. Just tonight actually.”

“Odd how?”

_Odd how_ , indeed. How would one describe it when it was almost indescribable?

He would _answer_ her, but not really say anything. (“ _How’s it going over there, Jones?” “Football match.”)_

He’d chuckle but certainly not _laugh_. ( _“Did you win?” “Yep.” “Wow, try to contain your enthusiasm, buddy.” “Ha. Ha.”_ )

And she didn’t do anything wrong – she _knew_ she couldn’t have – and yet she found herself immediately sick with guilt that Killian was mad at her and she was going back to being the odd man out of her own life by losing her brand new (hot) best friend.

“Um, he was just really distant when I got home. Which was weird because he was normal this morning when I borrowed his Cap’n Crunch and he was normal when he texted me early this afternoon. Then I got home and _bam_. It was like he was a different person.

“What happened when he texted you?”

“He just said he had good news to share – which I now realize he never actually told me what it _was_ – and he asked why I wasn’t knocking back. But I wasn’t home.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes lit up like someone had flipped a damn switch and Emma immediately caught on to her train of thought and no longer wanted to be having this fucking conversation.

“And he thought you were home because…?”

“He heard noises in my apartment. But it was just… it was just Graham there.”

In her defense, Mary Margaret _tried_ to not look condescending, like there might be a thought bubble above her head that read _DUH_ – but she was _fantastically_ failing.

Shit. Killian was weird because of _Graham_.

“But it’s nothing!” Emma snapped before Mary Margaret could open her mouth. “There’s nothing there. Killian is my friend and Graham isn’t even that. He’s a _coworker_ , and only kind of a coworker at that. There’s no reason for jealousy. There aren’t even _lines_ between us let alone some sort of idiotic love triangle. This is neither geometry nor a soap opera.”

“Emma, first of all, I’m going to bet that Killian kind of likes you. Even if he’s not trying to do anything about it. Go back and look at his face in the background of that picture Ruby put on Instagram and I’m pretty sure you’ll agree there’s a fondness in his eyes far beyond _oh my neighbor is so funny_. And secondly, this doesn’t even have to be a _romantic_ thing.”

“So you’re suggesting it’s _friend_ jealousy?” Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head and tried to wish on a magic lantern to be _out of this conversation_ but sadly, it didn’t exactly work.

“Somewhat, yes. Think about it, Emma. You guys have grown very close. I’m sure you talk about Ruby a lot and me and maybe even Belle and Regina. And there’s no _way_ you haven’t told him some stories about Mulan who _also_ happens to be a cop. But if he misunderstood the situation with Graham… that means you’ve never mentioned him before. And, well, just put yourself in his shoes. If you heard a woman in his place that he’d _never mentioned_ , wouldn’t you feel a little betrayed? Left out?”

Ugh, fuck Mary Margaret and her idiotic _logic_.

-

Killian woke up with a hangover and a whole lot of _shame_.

God knows what Will would blab to Robin, what Robin would blab to Regina, what would make its way back to Emma.

Yes, it stung that she apparently seemed to have a secret boyfriend she didn’t see fit to mention to him. Ever. But he’d get over it. He’d get over it and ask the bloke to watch a game with him or something and make friends because he valued Emma as a neighbor and a friend and a human being and he wanted her to be happy – and, of course, for her to remain a part of his life.

He could hear the faint sounds of sizzling eggs and Ed Sheeran, telltale signs that Emma was making breakfast. Now, whether or not that was a breakfast for one or _two_ , he wasn’t entirely positive.

Until he heard a distinct knock-knock, knock-knock.

“ _Ouch_ , Swan, maybe we should come up with an _I’m hungover_ signal that will warn the other not to bang on the wall.”

“Yeah, Killian, I think that’s called a text message. Which I sent you. Do you want breakfast or not?”

Text message? Killian reached beneath his pillow and yanked out his phone, surprised to see that he had three new messages, all from Emma.

**Emma** : I’m making breakfast if you want to come over.

**Emma** : Will left me a note on my door to say you’d need it. And also that you were a “cad,” whatever that is.

**Emma** : If you don’t answer me I’m going to be forced to make that pretty head of yours hurt…

That son of a bitch. Maybe Will might have his actual best interests in mind after all.

-

As soon as he agreed (well, as soon as she heard him laugh and start shuffling toward her door), she started to panic. Not because she regretted what she was about to do – only because it was bound to threaten their very precarious friendship balance. What they were to each other, it had already begun to be real – but the more they _talked_ about that realness, the more real it actual became. (Damn, was _she_ the hungover one? Because this shit was making her head hurt.)

Killian was an honest man. And she valued that more than anything.

(And if she knew anything from her _failed_ relationships, the ones who _all_ had very serious problems in the honesty department – well really she shouldn’t be getting ahead of herself thinking she’s learned _anything_ when she’s still _never_ had a successful romantic relationship and the closest thing to one in her life was a friendship she was _dangerously_ close to fucking up just about every other day.)

Point is: honesty makes it real. Killian is honest. He’s real.

And now she was going to be, too.

“Morning, Emma,” he croaked, bracing both hands on the door so it wouldn’t slam when he closed it. “What deliciousness are you cooking up over here?”

She didn’t meet his eyes, but words fell out all the same. “I’m not dating Graham.” _Welp, guess we’re getting straight to the point, aren’t we?_

Killian looked around him like he’d somehow missed other people in the room carrying on some separate conversation he was sorely behind on. But who could blame him? Her brain was all over the damn place.

“Um, what?”

“Graham. The guy who was over here yesterday. He’s a cop that I work with sometimes. He’s cute – well, he’s actually pretty _hot_ if I’m being honest. But I don’t like him. Or want him. Or anything. And I was – I almost mentioned him the other day to you, that he was transferring departments and might stop by. But then I didn’t. And I don’t know why I didn’t. And I think that I upset you by _not_ telling you. And I don’t even know what any of this means, but I wanted to tell you. Now. Because it’s important. And you’re important. And whatever the reason I didn’t tell you and whatever reason it upset you… well, we’ll figure that out later? I’m just sorry. Oh! Here. This is a picture of him.” She swiped through her phone and tapped around until she found the picture they’d run of him in the papers last year, tossing the phone at Killian – only to have him drop it.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m not… I’m not quite awake yet.” He leaned down to pick her phone up, inspecting it for scratches and dents. He studied the photo, a half-confused, half-uncomfortable smile crossing his face. “Well I’m no woman, but that’s one tasty dish,” he chuckled, Emma immediately recognizing the line from an episode of _Friends_ they’d watched on Netflix the week before.

“Ok, _Chandler_ , down boy.” She snatched the phone back and shoved it in her pocket, moving over to the stovetop to divide the eggs onto two plates. She busied herself – and gave Killian a moment to recover – toasting some bread and getting out the condiments and jams. Finally she poured the coffee and took her seat next to Killian at the little breakfast bar, sliding the sugar toward him and making eye contact for the first time all that morning.

He was quiet, his expression contemplative. “You know, Emma, the when someone says ‘it’s nothing’ about a relationship – or lack thereof – it’s never nothing. Are you sure you don’t like Graham? It’s OK if you did. I mean, if he’s just a complete fuckface, I might have to intervene eventually, but I’d let you get a few good shags in first.”

And with that all of the ridiculous tension just dissolved. Disappeared. Melted _away_.

They both started laughing somewhat hysterically, Killian gripping at his temples like if he could just apply a little bit more pressure he might be able to steady his brain against the laughter earthquake. It was a silly moment, of course, a _light_ moment, but it was still one of the most _genuine_ exchanges she could recall in her life. Because he _had_ been jealous the night before – Mary Margaret was _right_. And, yeah, he probably did kind of _like_ her (who wouldn’t? She was delightful, as Ruby always assured her). But none of that mattered. Because he was being _honest_ when he (even jokingly) suggested he wanted her to be happy.

His blue eyes were shining with something she might even call _glee_ as he stabbed into his scrambled eggs and simply started telling her about his evening as if they’d never had an uncomfortable exchange at all.

She’d yet to meet Will face to face (he almost always got sidetracked when he was supposed to meet her… weird), but from their conversations through the wall she actually started to like the man, douchey as he could often be. He made Killian laugh and made sure he never took himself too seriously. And despite some of the highly inappropriate things she’d heard him call her from Killian’s apartment (usually involving the word _trollop_ for whatever reason), she knew he valued her role in Killian’s life (evidence: the note). So they could scream about soccer and interrupt her sleep _all_ they wanted.

“…and when they scored, Will was so angry he threw his beer at my TV. Thank god it was almost empty or he’d be out buying me a new flatscreen right now! Ouch, bloody _hell_ , Swan, do you have any Advil? I’m enjoying myself too much and _last night me_ isn’t appreciating it, apparently.”

She chuckled and slid off her stool, refilling his coffee and snagging the bottle out of the cupboard.

“Are you sure you don’t want some musical entertainment first, Jones?” Shaking the pills like a maraca, Emma shook her hips and bobbed her head, and bounced around the kitchen like a child or a drunk or possibly an insane person. But Killian smiled in return and that’s all she needed to keep being silly for basically the rest of her life.

-

It got easier from then on. Not because his feelings were clearer or less complicated. In fact, the contrary was certainly more accurate. And _her_ feelings for _him_ , well it was becoming obvious that, at the very least, they existed. Her feelings, that is.

There was a friendship, a camaraderie, between them. They were _kindred spirits_.

(In addition to probably being fairly attracted to one another.)

_But_. They were friends. Happily so. And so that’s what Killian focused on.

She was perched on the side of his couch watching a rerun of America’s Funniest Home Videos when she got the text from Graham asking her out. (She said no.)

He was hammering a nail into her bathroom wall when Emma gasped while staring at her phone – probably another _Game of Thrones_ pun – distracting Killian just long enough to swing just a little off target, sending the implement straight through the drywall. (She called a contractor.)

They were in the middle of making imitation Samoa Girl Scout cookies when Emma’s wretched middle school nemesis tried friending her on Facebook. (He crafted a direct message on her behalf using no fewer than 25 British-style curse words.)

They watched the Pirates of the Caribbean series as “research” for Killian’s new pirate cruises. (Emma agreed to play Elizabeth Swann – as long as it was when she was the pirate _King_.)

Emma fell asleep at Killian’s apartment more than once, researching her latest skips while sprawled out on his living room floor. (He woke her up every time and led her back to her own room, kissing her forehead only if he was sure she’d already fallen back asleep.)

-

And then it got _harder_. Emma had loved the way they’d grown together, how she could be absolutely herself around him.

But that had gotten _dangerous_. Because some days she’d forget to stop herself from flirting. Some days she’d forget that she should probably start spending a little more time with the friends who don’t live fifteen feet from her. Some days she’d forget that she should probably tell her heart (and the throbbing between her thighs) that she needed to calm the fuck down.

You see, Killian hadn’t used _this_ particular knock in quite a while.

_Knock, knock_.

The one that (kind of) started it all.

Emma was leaned back in her bed, her computer on her lap when the gentle sound drew her from the maze of maps she was attempting to decipher on the screen.

Seems Killian had some tension he needed to release.

She heard him gently call her name – she’d been awfully quiet, so he was probably checking to make sure she was asleep or had her headphones in or maybe had left (he really was maddeningly respectful sometimes).

But she didn’t respond. She didn’t type. She didn’t dare shift her body, in fact.

Emma could just _hear_ Mary Margaret judging her. Just like she could hear Ruby cheering her on.

She _shouldn’t_ listen to what he was about to do. It wasn’t nice to invade someone’s privacy like that. Actually it was downright fucking creepy if she thought about it too much.

So she just decided _not to think_.

-

He couldn’t help it.

It had been weeks – _weeks_ – and it was the first time he was (mostly) certain Emma was occupied. (Somewhat) sure that she wouldn’t hear him or scold him or have any idea that what he was about to do was largely fueled by fantasies of _her_.

He’d seen her the night before, out with Ruby and David. She’d been dancing in a slinky dress, her long blonde hair flowing down to her waist as she threw her head back like she’d never had a single care in the world. He’d tried everything to avoid any _untoward_ thoughts. He’d imagined more clothes onto her. He’d imagined that his grandparents, god rest their souls, were sitting next to him. He’d even tried imagining that Dave was going to whip out his pistol and shoot him every time he thought about anything south of Emma’s graceful neck.

But he was fucking helpless.

So he found himself less than 18 hours later shucking his pants and gently knocking on Emma’s wall and grasping his dick like his life depended on it.

(It was bad form, he _knew_ it was, but part of him was hoping maybe the attention wouldn’t be entirely unwanted.)

(If she were to know it existed.)

-

It was barely fifteen seconds after he’d called her name that she heard the first moan. It was light, quiet – but _strained_. He was definitely holding back. His sheets shifted and the springs of his bed squeaked and Emma bit down on her lip _hard_ just trying not to sigh in contentment imagining his hands on _her_ instead.

The sound of flesh against flesh was flooding her senses and before she could try to reason with herself why she absolutely _should not_ – she was letting her hands slide up her body, over her breasts, and down over her belly until her fingers were dipping beneath the waistband of her yoga pants.

Killian moaned again and Emma’s fingers danced down between her legs, drawing her underwear to the side until she came in contact with the evidence of exactly how much she’d been thinking about naked Killian Jones.

He grunted and her breathing caught as she let her finger circle around her clit, her vision suddenly flooded with images of Killian drawing his tongue across his bottom lip. What might that feel like against her own sensitive flesh?

Damn good, if she had any imagination.

Through the wall, Killian’s breathing sped up, his wrist setting a rhythm she couldn’t help but mimic with her own fingers, finally dipping one inside of herself as he let out another grunt.

Her pants were hindering her movement and she was too far gone to care that this was highly fucking inappropriate, so she shifted upward and kicked off her bottoms, flinging them across the room before tugging her t-shirt over her head.

Her breasts now freed, she let out a soft moan as she trailed her hands over them, squeezing lightly before drifting back down to the apex of her thighs. Killian’s grunting was getting desperate – he had to be _so_ close – so Emma bucked harder against her own ministrations, completely unashamed to be imagining that deliciously hot, wonderfully charming, kind as all hell neighbor thrusting wildly over her, behind her, _into_ her.

Desperate for release, she moved her other hand to rub at her clit and before she realized what was happening, she was moaning – practically fucking screaming – as her orgasm ripped through her.

-

Killian grunted one last time, panting as he came down from his high, thick white ropes coating his fingers and belly as he gently stroked himself until he was spent. God, he’d wound himself up so much, imagined Emma beneath him so vividly he could practically _hear_ her panting for him.

Then he heard the bouncing of the bed that wasn’t his own and the sighs and breathy, feminine moans and finally an all-out scream and that’s when he realized something crazy.

She actually _was_.

Bloody _hell_.

-

She came back to herself the second the bedroom next to hers went quiet. Completely, totally, not even the sound of breathing _silent_.

Fucking _shit_. She was loud and not at all stealthy and there was exactly 0% chance Killian didn’t know exactly what she’d been doing while he’d been doing the same.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?


	5. All Work and No Play

This wasn’t happening. There was no fucking way this was real life. Nope nope _nope_.

It was just a nightmare, right? Work stress was making her have super horrifying, naked-in-public style dreams. There’s no way she’d actually just let her hot neighbor/best friend hear (very clearly) that she was getting herself off to the sounds of his hand on his own dick.

Except this _was_ happening. She _had_ done that and he _did_ hear and now she was basically going to go crawl under a rock and die. Quickly.

“Emma?” she heard through the wall.

Nope. Noooo way.

What’s the way out on this one? Crying! Pretend she was crying. No, dumbass, that noise had sounded _nothing_ like tears.

(It sounded like exactly what it was – the best orgasm she’d had in months – if not _longer_.)

And that was an awkwardness she wasn’t prepared to deal with.

So she very quietly rolled out of bed, slipped on her pants and t-shirt, and tiptoed out to her living room where she planned to camp out until Killian forgot her existence entirely.

-

Silence. All he heard in response was _silence_.

Not that he couldn’t hear her shuffling around, probably running away. Of course he knew she was in there, probably freaking out in her uniquely Emma Swan fashion. But her footfalls kept getting further away and he could only assume she’d gone to her living room or kitchen, probably to sneak out of the apartment and off to Mary Margaret and David’s at her very first opportunity.

_Patient,_ though. He could be patient.

 

Except that it was harder than he thought. A few hours passed and he heard various noises of life from Emma’s apartment – but not a single sign that she was planning to acknowledge his existence. He’d knocked a few times in a few different patterns. He’d even tried knocking the rhythm to _Jingle Bells_ and the _Rocky_ theme, but _nothing_.

And he wasn’t sure how he should be feeling about all of this. Because on one hand, her actions – and subsequent _re_ action – suggested that it’s not crazy to _hope_ she might be harboring some true feelings for him. So, yes, there was a _positive_ buried in this quite odd situation.

But she was still _Emma_. She still didn’t trust easily, worried often, and wasn’t quick to let someone in. Whatever caused her to give into her desires – if only for that brief moment – it was probably all but erased now. And god knows how long it would be before she’d begin to open up again.

If ever.

He might have been imagining himself inside her, might have been flushed and panting at the idea of her bouncing breasts and her cries of pleasure, but he’d give up every chance in the world of that becoming a reality just to keep her as his _friend_.

He hadn’t felt so close to someone since Liam’s death, not even his mates, not even Milah (he’d loved her fiercely, of course, but it was somehow just _different_ ). Had he even _told_ Emma about them? Certainly not the whole stories. He wanted to share everything with her, wanted her to feel like she could do the same.

And now he’d gone and fucked it all up for a romp in the sack with his goddamn right hand.

(Not that she wasn’t complicit in all this as well… but he wasn’t going to blame her. Not _yet_.)

-

Emma sat in her office (yes she _had_ an office – she’d just preferred to do work from the comfort of her own bed. You know, back before the sight of her bed or her apartment made her sick to her goddamn stomach). So she sat there listening to the _Harry Potter_ score Pandora station, researching and typing reports and pretending to be _so very_ busy, really just passing time between her intermittent freak-outs about the _masturbatory incident_.

God, how idiotic was she? She should have just kept it in her goddamn pants. She should have walked out of her bedroom, should have run far away, should have told him to stop or at the very fucking least should have _put a pillow over her damn mouth_ so Killian hadn’t _heard_ her.

Maybe she just needed to go get laid. Just bleach the memory of his grunts and her fingers between her thighs out of her brain and move on like nothing ever happened. Killian would probably go along with it, right?

(Yes, he would. He’d go along with a lot, she knew, which only made her feel _worse_.)

Emma’s stomach was in knots and her face was on _fire_ and she knew she needed to stop pretending she was using her office for anything but a sad escape and get the fuck out of there.

So for the first time in _weeks_ she showed up unannounced at Mary Margaret’s – only to be met with an empty house.

_Fine_. If the Queen of Optimism couldn’t offer her some _hope_ , she’d have to resort to someone who might be just a little bit better at distracting her from her problems: Ruby. Yes, Ruby was everything Emma needed in the world, the girl who would brighten her day, knowing it was complete shit, without ever once forcing her to talk about anything she didn’t want to talk about.

Talk. Ugh, that shit was _overrated_.

But yet she found herself wishing for the sounds of _talking_ when she knocked on Ruby and Whale’s door fifteen minutes later. Because the vocal sounds her ear canals were being assaulted with were definitely in the “throes of sexual passion” category rather than anything related to speech.

_Of fucking course_.

Just as the sounds were amplifying to something very nearing _climax_ , Emma bolted. Was there nowhere she could run?

And in a stroke of pure serendipity, her phone buzzed as she reached the nearest stop sign.

**Graham** : I could use some assistance on a stakeout. You up for it?

It didn’t take much thought for Emma to make a decision.

**Emma** : Why the hell not. Where am I meeting you?

 

She showed up at the police station an hour later with two coffees in her hand. It wasn’t going to be a particularly exciting night, but Graham agreed to pay her a consultant fee if she’d simply sit with him and distract the man with her “feminine wiles” if necessary – and she figured it was probably the best way to continue on with her life without feeling ashamed and awkward every minute of the day.

“Emma! Are you ready for a long and exciting night of criminal surveillance?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be!” She handed him his coffee as he led her to the unmarked police car and in minutes they were on the road and chatting like the old friends they were.

She’d met Graham a long while back. She was new in town, Mary Margaret being the only person she even _knew_ , and Graham had offered her a job as a deputy. Mary Margaret trusted him – he’d saved her life when she was a child – so Emma figured it couldn’t hurt much. But then Graham and Regina’s little _friends with benefits_ arrangement blew up in their faces and he moved away and Emma just couldn’t see herself continuing in the Storybrooke PD under the idiotic new sheriff. So she went into bail bonds instead. But Graham had been a great mentor and a pretty good friend. Always professional (except for that time he got drunk and tried to kiss her – a one-time thing), he was smart and strong and truly a killer shot. Plus his dog looked like a _wolf_ and Emma liked to hug him (she was a dog person – sue her).

They’d kind of lost touch when he moved away, but now that he and Regina had become civil again and he’d come back home, it was _nice_ seeing him out on the job, chatting with him, running into him at Granny’s. He loved hunting and reading and bore an uncanny resemblance to the hot guy from that terrible book-turned-movie, so could anyone really blame her for enjoying his company?

Things with him were _light_ and entirely _uncomplicated_. Despite them both being quite attractive people, they didn’t really have any lingering sexual tension. They didn’t talk about anything heavy or overly serious. In fact, for the first hour of their stakeout they mostly played Hangman and discussed the upcoming Captain America movie.

“But here’s what I don’t understand. Why do they have to take sides like that? Life isn’t black and white.”

“No, but picking sides is a good marketing tactic. Everything is _merchandise_ and _hashtags_ these days. #TEAMCAP will sell. Some movie about subtle complexities of life as a superhero isn’t going to make a billion dollars. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

“Why are you such a bubble-burster, Emma? Can’t you just let me rant?”

“Not when you’re ranting about Captain America. I kind of love him. I’d date him if he were real.”

Graham chuckled and took a long sip of his coffee. “I’ll make a call to Chris Evans. I’m sure he’d be into you.”

“Well who wouldn’t be?” Emma joked, her tone much hollower than she’d intended.

 

It was almost halfway through the night before they thought they saw the perp. The Rabbit Hole – Storybooke’s least reputable furnisher of alcoholic beverages – wasn’t very busy for a Thursday night and the current girlfriend of the perp was spotted out front taking a smoke break. Graham sent Emma in to do some recon (you’d be surprised how much shit girls would spill while sharing a bathroom or a cigarette).

But this girl was tight-lipped and clearly _pissed_. She wasn’t having any of Emma’s friendly nonsense. So Graham texted her to just get back in the car and they’d call it a night.

Until a leather-clad, spiky haired, way-too-familiar Brit exited the bar, a little bit drunk and clearly mostly out of it.

Shit, shit, _shit_. Emma caught Graham’s inquisitive gaze just as she ducked behind a tree, squatting behind a branch before Killian turned in her direction. His eyes were glassy and it looked like there might be lipstick on his collar and Emma felt nauseated, so she screwed her eyes closed and tried some of the deep, cleansing breaths Mary Margaret had taught her when they took that yoga class from Groupon a few years back and she waited until his booming chuckle could be heard far down the road and well away from _her_.

What kind of fucking luck what _that?_

Emma shuffled her way back into the undercover car, Graham’s expression clearly begging her to share what the hell he’d just witnessed.

“Just… don’t ask.” Her face was equally stern and embarrassed as she tugged on the ends of her hair.

Graham tilted his head in disapproval but laughed lightheartedly. “What, did you dump his best friend? Steal his cat? Insult his Aerosmith cover band?”

“I wish it were that simple,” she replied with accidental honesty.

“Care to talk about it?”

Emma thought long and hard. Because despite not _wanting_ to have this conversation with Graham, she kind of needed to have it with _someone_. How the hell was she supposed to get over her dire embarrassment if no one else could tell her it wasn’t really that big of a deal?

She was _so close_ to spilling the beans, to telling the whole ridiculous story, when suddenly her face flushed and her heart raced and she made the snap decision to just swallow the feelings and never ever talk about that day ever again.

Ever.

“Not much to talk about. Made an ass of myself. Ruined something pretty good.” Emma exhaled slowly, determined to make like Elsa and _let it go_. “What’s done is done.”

 

Emma didn’t go home that night, opting to sleep on the tiny couch in her office. And she didn’t come home the next night either, finally connecting with Mary Margaret and Ruby and settling for a girls’ night (plus David). And the rest of the week passed fairly quickly as soon as she resolved to stop thinking about the Voldemort of all memories (the one that Shall Not be Named).

-

Emma hadn’t been home in days – at least not while he was. He knocked on her wall every day when he got home and sent her at least one text message a day, usually just something along the lines of “hey” or “still not home?” because he wasn’t about to freak her out or push her away further or make her feel any kind of shame.

Because he wasn’t all that ashamed. Shit happens. People have needs. People have bad days and good days and all kinds of days in between. And he missed his friend.

By the one week point, he was seriously contemplating telling her he’d move if they could just resume their normal friendship again.

It was eating him alive, not being able to talk to her. And he needed to talk to someone about it.

Will had noticed he was a bit pissy and somewhat annoyed, had thought the silence from the other side of the wall was somewhat suspicious. But what was he supposed to tell Will? If he ever wanted a future with Emma – just the _friend_ kind, even – he certainly couldn’t tell Will the truth about the little hiccup in their relationship. Sure, Will new something was up as soon as Killian had asked him to go get drunk the previous Thursday, but he couldn’t tell him it was because his hot neighbor/best friend had fucked herself (presumably) thinking about him and _apparently_ that makes neighborly life awkward.

No, that was definitely not acceptable.

But he _had_ to ask someone. He _needed_ someone’s opinion about how he should react. He wasn’t ready to give up, and he didn’t want to grow to hate her just because she got scared and shut down.

Who he really wished he could talk to was Liam, but since he thought that whole _Long Island Medium_ deal that Ruby loved so much was straight garbage, he’d have to settle for the advice of someone still among the living. Hopefully someone he trusted. Even better, someone who knew _Emma_.

(And was mature enough to keep his fucking mouth shut with a particularly juicy secret.)

So that’s how Killian found himself inviting David Nolan to share some beers at his apartment, assured by the man himself that Emma overhearing them from her place wouldn’t be a problem since she’d been staying at _his_.

At least that solved _that_ mystery (not that he was surprised).

Killian met Dave at the door with an open beer in his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry about this, mate.”

“Killian, it’s OK. I knew there was something going on as soon as Emma refused to leave our house even when I threatened to make her do chores. And, for the record, I look forward to just having a few casual beers – for real – at some point. But for now, I’m happy to play couples therapist.”

“We’re not a couple!” Killian was quick to clarify, worried that Emma’s friend (and now his own friend, too) would assume he only wanted advice on coercing Emma into a relationship with him. But that was entirely not the point. He never wanted to _coerce_ her of anything. No tricks, no manipulation. Just the pure friendship they’d found entirely by accident. He just wanted it _back._

“Dave, we’re friends. And there was a… well, an embarrassing situation. It sort of interrupted the friendship flow. The _friendship_ is all I’m looking to repair, to be clear.”

“Oh come on, _pirate_ , you’re telling me you’re not attracted to her? I’ve seen you together. And I’ve heard you talk about each other.”

“I know it’s – well, _complicated_. But for right now, I’m just trying to get her to talk to me again. And I think in order to do that, I’m going to need to tell you something you most likely don’t want to hear.”

“What level of ‘don’t want to hear’ are we talking here?”

Killian tried to think of any kinds of euphemisms he could make, any way he could soften the blow of her stand-in-brother having to hear anything remotely sexual. But there was no way around it.

“You’re not going to like it, mate. There’s a sexual component to the story, despite my never having touched her. To be clear.”

David groaned, but there must have been something desperate in Killian’s eyes or voice or aura or _something_ because he agreed to listen and dispense advice and then to _never speak of it again_.

“All right, Killian, get the traumatic conversation over with so we can play _Call of Duty_ or something nice and violent to get my mind off of this.”

“Well, the most concise explanation is this: Emma and I have been doing well and I think we’ve both really been benefitting from our friendship, but then she heard me, um, _pleasuring_ myself and I somewhat got the impression that she may have – well, may have _enjoyed_ the experience. In her own way.”

Dave’s eyes went wide and his cheeks went _green_. “God, this is grosser than I’d imagined. But seriously, it’s not that surprising. It’s pretty obvious to everyone that you’re pretty _sweet_ on each other. In addition to being true, actual, _real_ friends, which, by the way, is the best basis for a long, healthy relationship. So I’m not sure why you’re both in such denial.”

Killian was about to cut in, but David steamrolled on through.

“Ok, so I know it’s probably only _Emma_ who is in denial. I know you’ve mentioned you lost a love so maybe you’re _healthily_ hesitant on top of Emma’s special brand _absolutely terrified of human interaction that could lead to heartbreak_. So there’s bound to be issues. Just assure her that it’s not a big deal, that you’re _still_ friends. Send text messages. Leave voicemails. She probably wants to talk about the – ahem – _incident_ even _less_ than I do. Avoid talk of _that_. But don’t avoid her. She’ll think she fucked it all up.”

“So you don’t think I’ll push her away if I talk to her?”

“No, Killian. I kind of think you’re stuck with her. Just… please never tell me anything that involves your penis ever again, OK?”

“Scout’s honor.” Killian held up his fingers and then mock-saluted, thanking David one more time before busting out the Xbox.

(And as much as _Call of Duty_ would have been the more manly choice of games, Killian and Dave unashamedly played _Just Dance_ for three hours and twelve beers.)

(Killian made Dave a _hangover cure_ shake in the morning, thus cementing their friendship.)

 

Once the headache cleared and he built up his courage, Killian typed Emma a simple message.

_I’m not embarrassed and it doesn’t change anything for me, Swan. I plan to be your friend a very long time. Please come visit. You don’t even have to knock._

-

The text message had made her feel sick. Not because it wasn’t nice, not because it didn’t prove he was the best fucking friend she could imagine. No, it proved that she was cowardly scum and that made her feel like _shit_.

She’d been sitting at Mary Margaret’s when he sent it, a suspiciously quiet David across from her at the kitchen table.

“Emma, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he commented without truly meeting her eyes.

“Yeah, something like that,” she responded, excusing herself to the bathroom. She sat down on the toilet and played a few rounds of Bubble Mania and typed probably fifteen different drafts of possible messages to Killian before finally locking her screen and having Siri call Ruby. They met that night for dinner and talked about Ruby’s new _girlcrush,_ Mulan, and Emma tried five different times to excuse herself to go home (to _Killian’s_ ) but she chickened out.

Every. Single. Time.

So she stayed at Ruby’s that night (without a single sideways glance from her former neighbor – for which she was grateful).

Emma finally went home that next morning, and there was something weird about her apartment. Did it smell different? Look different? No. It was the sound: silence.

She _hated_ it.

She’d taken to checking Killian’s website to see when he had excursions scheduled. At first it was to try to avoid him. But finally, after a week and a half of nothing but missing him, she figured she should probably be attempting to _stop_ avoiding him. He deserved that much.

According to his website he wasn’t working. So why wasn’t he home?

She wasn’t exactly one to judge on _avoiding home_ , so she just waited around for a while, watching TV, reading, doing yoga.

But she didn’t hear a _peep_ from Killian’s room.

(She did hear the upstairs neighbors yelling about doing dishes, so at least she knew she hadn’t gone deaf. _Yay_.)

A few hours later she awoke with _The Rosie Effect_ flopped open on her face, clearly having passed out somewhere halfway through the book. _That’s what happens when you spend over a week away from your own house, sick with anxiety about losing your friend._

And where the fuck was he, anyway?

She reached for her phone to check the time and noticed she’d slept through several text messages and calls, mostly from David and Mary Margaret.

**Mary Margaret** : Please call me, Emma.

**David** : Pick up your phone. We need to talk.

**David** : Emma!

**Mary Margaret** : We won’t be able to call out anymore because they’re telling us to turn off our phones in here. We’re at Storybrooke General, and you should come. We’ll come out and check to see if you’re in the waiting room as often as possible, OK? Please hurry, Emma.

_Shit._ What the fuck was going on now?

-

A gentle knock at Killian’s door drew him out of his _Black Sails_ binge-watching coma on his first day off in far too long. Who the hell knocked without texting first in this day and age, anyway? And especially this early in the morning.

Upon recognizing the blonde locks through his peephole, he grumbled under his breath, “Oh _now_ you’ve decided to acknowledge my existence, Swan?” It had been so long and he’d put too much effort already toward trying to ease her discomfort over the incident he had _promised_ not to fucking mention. He’d given her space. He’d waited. What more was he supposed to do? Did she just expect him to forgive the shitty manner she’d treated him, despite his best efforts to be the bigger person, the decent human, the friend she needed (and he _wanted_ to be).

But the _second_ their eyes connected, his annoyance washed away.

Her cheeks were tear-stained, mascara-streaked, and swollen. Her eyes were bloodshot and hopeless and Killian honestly didn’t care how much an idiot she’d been the previous week and a half, there was no way he was turning her away. Not when she was like _this_.

“Emma?” His first instinct was to wrap her in a hug, terrified about what awful occurrence could have rendered the usually steely Emma Swan absolutely broken.

“Please, Killian, can I come in?”

“Always, love.”


	6. Why Does Tragedy Always Come on a Tuesday?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extremely quick turnaround on a new chapter because the last one ended kind of mean. Plus I was sick today so boom! New chapter is all yours. It's pretty heavy and there are mentions of several minor character deaths.

She’d been sobbing for at least half an hour, just slumped against his shoulder in the middle of his squeaky couch, sniffling and snorting and gasping like she was never going to be OK again.

He remembered what _that_ felt like.

Not that every loss was the same. And not that he actually _knew_ this was a loss. Maybe someone was injured or perhaps there was a scare? Whatever it was, it was bad and it ached and Emma wasn’t quite capable of talking about it yet.

So he wouldn’t make her.

He pulled her closer and leaned back into the crook of the couch, encouraging her to lift her boot-covered feet and curl them under herself, tucked tightly against him as he stroked her hair. She cried and cried and _cried_ and with every passing moment he knew that whatever had occurred, it was definitely an _ending_.

Her tears finally ran out, her gasps of breath growing less sharp and further apart, until her eyes drooped with pure exhaustion. Had she been awake all night, watching something in her life fall apart? Had she been alone?

Well, at least she wasn’t _now_.

The anchor-patterned quilt hanging off the back of his couch was just barely out of reach, so he shifted Emma up and slinked out from under her, lying her head down on his throw pillow and draping the blanket over her body. She clutched at it quickly, tucking the blanket under her chin and bringing her knees even closer to her chest. Killian knew he should take her shoes off, should make her as comfortable as possible, but nothing was worth risking waking her up if she was as sleep deprived and horrified as he imagined she must be.

God, what could have occurred since he’d seen Dave that would justify such grief?

_Dave._

No, there’s no way it was Dave or Mary Margaret. That would be too cruel of the universe and Killian wouldn’t stand for that kind of malarkey ( _like he had some say_ ).

Killian stepped carefully to the other end of the couch where his cell phone was currently charging, only to be met with several text messages.

**Dave** : I know you’re still having your awkwardness, but can you please make sure Emma made it home safe?

**Dave** : And actually, could you just force her to stop the awkward thing while you’re at it?

**Dave** : She really needs someone right now.

**Dave** : Since you probably haven’t heard yet, Emma’s coworker Graham passed away this morning. He had an aneurysm last night and Regina rushed him to the hospital. Unfortunately he died in surgery.

**Dave** : Emma probably hasn’t entirely filled you in on her past, but believe me when I say she’s going to take this HARD. Be there for her, please. (She refused our help.)

Was there anything worse than losing someone young and (seemingly) healthy without so much as a warning?

(There was, he knew there was. Because you could _love_ the person you lost, love them with all your bloody heart. The way he loved Liam, the way he loved Milah.)

He would be there for Emma. He would forgive her ignoring him, her weirdness, really he’d forgive her anything just to avoid the gaping hole that would be left in his life if she weren’t in it anymore.

Killian tapped back a quick _I’ve got her and she’s napping_ message to Dave, a responding _good_ being sent back before he’d even set down his phone.

Emma was fast asleep and Killian was well rested and high on panic and memory-induced adrenaline, so there was no way he would be napping with her. Not wanting her to wake up alone, though, he scooted to the other end of his couch, pulled her legs over his lap, and turned his TV to the Game Show Network, keeping the volume so low he needed to turn on subtitles just to pretend to play along.

-

She’d been awake for fifteen minutes probably – at least three rounds of Family Feud – but she was just _not_ ready to face the reality that opening her eyes would present her.

Graham – her newly rekindled kind-of-coworker, mostly-friend Graham – was _dead_. He’d been walking around in the world, just going about his business and chatting and working and being a normal human being and then all of the sudden he just _wasn’t_.

And if she kept her eyes closed and listened to the soothing sounds of angry buzzers and Steve Harvey’s cackle, focused on Killian’s calloused hands chafing against the fabric of her jeans, burrowed her nose further into the blanket that smelled an awful lot like _home_ , despite it not being one of her own belongings.

Then again, there wasn’t much she owned that held much sentimental value, that signified comfort. No, it was the _people_ in her life who kept her sane and stable and happy and made her think or hope or wish or even _believe_ she might belong somewhere.

It wasn’t something she talked about often because, as shitty as her life had once been, it _wasn’t_ anymore. And what was the point of ruminating on a long-gone past? There wasn’t. So she tried not to think about everything she’d had to endure, and she certainly didn’t share it with the people who didn’t already know (like sweet, wonderful Killian – who obviously had enough heartbreak on his own without hers piggybacking).

Except right now she couldn’t avoid it. She didn’t give a _fuck_ how many married men had said their wives were bad cooks (36 – _ouch_ ), not when all she could think about was that life was wildly unfair and how obnoxious it was that she was losing yet _another_ person who never deserved it.

She noticed the wetness streaming down her face just before she felt the rough pads of Killian’s fingers brushing it away.

Time for reality.

The world didn’t look any different when she opened her eyes, but it certainly _felt_ different. Had it really been less than two weeks since the worst thing in her life had been Killian hearing her _moan_? (She never thought she’d be wishing for that discomfort again, but the universe was a big, giant, bag of _douche_ and apparently just wanted to test out exactly how many negative emotions one person could experience in a lifetime without going postal).

Her chest started shaking again – was she sobbing?

Nope, she’d started to _laugh_ because why the fuck wouldn’t she?

“Emma, love. I’m so sorry about Graham,” Killian said sincerely, just allowing her to laugh and cry and stare in the distance like she had complete forgotten how to adult or even _human_ , apparently.

But seriously, this shouldn’t be about _her_. How fucking selfish was she, even in her damn head? Graham suffered. And his family. And _Regina_ – god, Regina. They’d _just_ gotten over the whole FWB-fallout deal (and Regina had moved on and everything was _fine_ ) and they were finally OK with being around each other again. _Just_ finding a new normal. And then out of fucking nowhere the man collapses right in front of her.

“Oh, god. Robin! Is he totally freaked out?” Emma asked, suddenly remembering a very sleepy Robin at the hospital hugging a sobbing Regina.

“I’m sorry, love, what about Robin?” Killian was looking at her like she had two heads or was speaking a different language – which made sense, actually since Killian didn’t have a metro pass to her thought train.

“Oh, god. Graham was with Regina when he… when it happened. And she called Robin and I know they haven’t really been seeing each other long, but she needed someone and he came and oh, _god_ , what did he tell you?”

Killian still stared like she was speaking a different language and she stopped to play back the memory of the previous thirty seconds to make sure she didn’t suffer some psychotic trauma that led her to reverting to her high school Spanish.

Nope, she was speaking English (as far as she could tell).

“God, Emma, I’ve been a self-absorbed arse the last couple weeks. I didn’t even realize Robin was still _seeing_ Regina. I’m a shit friend, love. You should run while you can.”

It wasn’t funny, not really, but she still laughed. He made her feel lighter, even under impossible circumstances. “I’m sorry, Killian, I have inappropriate reactions to stress. Wait! If Robin didn’t tell you about Graham, then who did?”

“Dave did. We’re becoming quite the pals now.” His smile was sad, but still genuine. God, of course they’d bond while she was trying to avoid him like the plague.

(Nope, she wasn’t going to think about all those awkward looks Dave had been giving her and what exactly that suggested he knew. Nope, one trauma at a time.)

Killian kept up the soothing strokes on her calves and through her hair, hugged her a little tighter against him every few minutes. “Do you want to talk about it, love?” he asked after some companionable silence.

Did she want to talk? Yes. About Graham? Not particularly. What was there to say? He was gone. They’d been friends-ish and she’d valued him as a cop, had enjoyed their light banter, but Graham had never really gotten to know _her_. Those walls of hers had kept a lot of people out – or at least at arm’s length. Seriously, she’d panicked and wouldn’t even tell him about Killian when he practically _witnessed_ it.

She didn’t want to do the same to Killian.

“Did I ever tell you about how I was an orphan?”

It was unexpected, yes. But Killian just shook his head like it wasn’t a ridiculous off-the-wall question. “Would you like to tell me?”

God, where was she even supposed to start? It was a lifetime of _shit_.

So she started with the highlight reel: abandoned on the side of the road as an infant, adopted by the Swans and then given back, bounced from foster family to foster family until she finally wound up in a group home led by Lucinda Blue.

“Ms. Blue was nice enough. Just… shady? But she treated me well. And she introduced me to one of the orphanage’s donor’s sons. Neal. He was fun. Happy. He seemed to really like me. Took me on a date where we broke into a rundown carnival. It was sweet.” She was nostalgic for a moment, just enjoying that moment in her life before it had all gone to shit.

“But?”

“But it turns out Neal’s dear old daddy was trying to set me up to take a fall for his crime. Neal realized it and wouldn’t allow it and – “ _Shit_. This is where it got really hard to think about, let alone _talk_.

“Things escalated and one of his dad’s goons tried to shoot me. He hit Neal instead because he was an idiot and I had to watch him die in his father’s arms surrounded by cop cars. That evil man tried to have _me_ tried for his murder but he’d been sloppy and there were witnesses. Anyway, after that, the orphanage lost funding so Ms. Blue had the _gall_ to slap me just before I was transported on to the next group home.”

To his credit, Killian barely increased pressure on her arm as she told her story, just letting her get it out.

“I was only 17. I ran away from the next place and stole a car and kind of made it home. The yellow bug I still have now, actually. Didn’t make many friends from there until Mary Margaret. And that job with Graham – back when I was his deputy – well, that was the first job I ever felt like I was making a difference.”

She closed her eyes and ran her hands through her hair and reached out and grasped Killian’s hand before she could talk herself out of it.

“I wasn’t even that close to Graham. Because I – I never get close to _anyone_ , really. Mary Margaret and David, they were practically like my adoptive parents. And Ruby – it took a long while for me to let her in.” Finally she made eye contact with Killian, to actually _connect_. “You’re kind of the best friend I have, or that I’ve _ever_ had. And I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

He laced their fingers together and his face morphed into an admittedly quite adorable self-satisfied _smirk_. “Oh, Emma. Shall we get matching BFF necklaces?”

They both giggled somewhat nervously, just trying to let the tension fly away like a cartoon bluebird.

“No, but seriously, Swan. I think you already know that I consider you my best friend. And, not that I want to play _who’s life sucked worse_ here, but I’ve known some loss, too. Quite a lot of it. My brother – well, he died on a _camping_ trip when we were in college. Got poisoned of all things. I held him as he took his last breath. And Milah – I’ve told you a little about her. She was an absolute _force_ _of nature_. She was strong and brilliant and was even better than me on Wall Street (which is a compliment I don’t give lightly). We had a wonderful time and I’d probably have married her. But she had a heart attack. I wasn’t even home when it happened. I was on the other side of the country, in fact, for the business. That’s why I quit and flitted off to Storybrooke to sail for a living.”

God she was such a dick. So she’d lost her teenage boyfriend and her friend/coworker. She was crying on the shoulder of a man who lost his older brother and the love of his fucking _life_.

“Killian, I can’t believe… I – I’m so _sorry_. That’s just too much and you don’t deserve it and I shouldn’t be blubbering on you and – ”

“Swan. _Stop_. Just because I might win the _who’s life sucks worse_ game – if we were playing – doesn’t mean you’re not grieving and that you don’t need support right now. And, for the record, I was simply telling you about them because they’re a part of me. Just like your tragedies are a part of you. We need to know all of it to know each other, right, best friend?”

-

He didn’t cry. He really thought he would, but somehow telling Emma about Liam and Milah – it came dangerously close to making him happy, like he was bringing them back to _life_. Here was this brand new person he deeply cared for, who gave a fuck about him in return, who had no idea about them. He could tell all the stories of his childhood, of his and Milah’s love story, and she’d hang on every word, soaking up everything he knew and loved about those amazing people. And her knowing them – knowing _him_ –made it almost they never really left.

(Cheesy but true.)

They were sitting on the couch, slightly less entangled, just playing along with _Chain Reaction_ when Killian’s phone rang. _Robin_. Guess it was time to start being a better friend.

He tilted the phone toward Emma so she could see the screen and she nodded, silently waving toward her apartment as if to ask if he wanted her to go. He shook his head and shuffled to his bedroom.

“Robin, mate, how’s it going?”

“Is Emma OK? She left the hospital so quickly. Regina was worried, and – ”

Leave it to Robin to make Killian feel even _worse_ for being so caring when Killian had almost entirely ignored him during his Week of Awkward. “She’s fine. Tell Regina she’s with me. I mean, if you’re with Regina? I’m sorry – I know I’ve been a little MIA.”

“It’s OK, Killian. Emma told Mary Margaret who told Regina that you and Emma had an ‘awkward encounter’ and weren’t speaking. I figured you were moping. You’ve always been a moper.”

“Hey now!” he shouted, earning a concerned look from Emma.

“Killian. Come on. You know I don’t mean for the big stuff. You’re actually quite a trooper when the universe is going to _shit_. But the silly stuff – I hate to break it to you but you’re kind of an overreactor.”

Killian chuckled, because – well, it was mostly true. Death, that he could handle. (Well, relatively so.) He knew all the shit he had to get done in those moments, the people he needed to take care of. But back in Uni, well he’d almost dropped out of school all because a lass cheated on him (with her professor).

He hadn’t even _liked_ her that much, but he didn’t pick up his phone for _days_ until Liam came and dragged him out of his dorm and smacked him upside his head until he “quit being so goddamn dramatic.”

Emma would like that story. He’d have to tell her that one (another day).

Robin got around to telling the hospital story (and to explaining that he felt like he was _falling for_ Regina), and it sounded just as horrifying as he’d guessed based on Emma’s face when she’d shown up at his door.

_At least she’d shown up, shitty as the circumstances might be_.

He talked to Robin for a few minutes, promised they’d catch up after the funeral (god, a _funeral_ ), and then he grabbed a couple sweatshirts, threw one at Emma, and started scrambling some eggs.

“Cheese, love?”

But Emma didn’t respond.

“Earth to Emma?”

A few more quiet moments passed before Emma seemed to snap out of it. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Do you want cheese on your eggs, Emma? Or maybe some ketchup?”

“I was just thinking,” she started, propping herself up on her knees and folding her hands together. “I’ve spent so much energy in my life worrying about things. Big things. You know, like graduation days and first dates and Y2K and all this shit that seems like it’s just going to be the end of everything, you know? And are those days ever the bad ones? I mean, has even a single day you really worried about, made yourself sick over, _ever_ been one of the bad ones? No. You spend your life worried about Friday nights and all the bad shit happens on quiet Tuesday mornings. It’s just – it’s not fair, you know. What happened to Graham, to Neal, to Liam and Milah and just – it’s not OK. It’s not fair and I’m not OK.”

The buzzer sounded from the living room, some poor sad couple losing whatever odd trivia show was playing in the background. Emma looked exhausted and out of breath, but her expression softened when their eyes connected and he thought yeah, maybe she’s not OK right now. But she _would_ be.

“But _yes_ ,” she said with a smile. “I would like cheese on my eggs.”

“As you wish, Swan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The serious stuff isn't totally over - the next chapter is mostly the funeral. But happy will return, I swear.


	7. 7 Things You Shouldn't Do at a Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma's a little grief-stricken and struggling to cope in this one. The entire chapter takes place during the funeral/wake, so there's obviously a lot of mentions of death and loss.

**_1\. Arrive Ten Minutes Late_ **

If anyone asked, she was blaming Killian.

(Not that it was fair, but she was sticking to it, damn it.)

She’d been up most of the night tossing and turning and playing silly gaming apps on her phone and watching reruns of _Law & Order_ and the Home Shopping Network, and around 4am Killian apparently grew sick of it, stomping out of his bed and down the hall, letting himself in to Emma’s apartment without any kind of knock or _ding-dong_.

“Swan!” He practically growled. “The grieving need their rest, not to purchase a towel set that you don’t even have room for in your bloody bathroom. Switch off your TV and go to sleep. Now.”

“Yes sir,” she snapped, saluting at him mockingly as she turned the TV _up_ rather than _off_.

“Emma, I’m just trying to help you here. And myself, a little bit. Please. I know a thing or two about mourning and you’re going to regret it if you don’t sleep. So take _these_ and close your eyes and I’ll see you in the morning all decked out in black and… more black. Savvy?”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she responded, not even bothering to question what exactly he was giving her before she was popping the pills in her mouth and chugging the (now cold) hot chocolate at her bedside to wash them down.

Subsequently, she found herself having slept through _two_ alarms the next morning, finally being roused by the absolutely incessant banging on her wall from Killian’s bedroom.

“Emma! We need to leave _five minutes ago_!”

_Welp, good thing you aren’t expected to look good at funerals_ , she thought, smoothing out the messy braid she’d slept in as she threw on a black skirt, black tights and a long black sweater.

She should be thankful for Killian that he woke her up, that he facilitated her sleep in the first place, really, that he was being so perfect and wonderful and _there_ for her in the way he’d probably had people be there for him in his moments of need, but Emma’s grief-stricken brain had mostly just decided that Killian was its designated punching bag for the week.

(Yeah, future Emma was going to be feeling some _guilt_ , but present Emma just needed to survive, ok?)

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner, Jones?” she screamed, throwing things around her closet trying to find a pair of shoes that wasn’t going to lead to her breaking an ankle while walking to the church.

“I’ve been _trying_ to,” he responded, his voice trailing further away as he shuffled out of his room, down the hallway, and into her apartment.

“Hey! I’m _changing_ here,” she snapped (again), slamming her bedroom door in his face, despite the fact that all of her body parts were entirely covered (and she honestly wasn’t the least bit ashamed of her body even if it _were_ showing).

“Yes, Emma, but I’m going to need your keys to pull the car around to the front. The scraping of keys against her ceramic mug was harsh even with a wall between them, and she heard the jingling of the keys grow further and further away as he retreated.

_Yep, that’s a great idea. Push away the people trying to make your life better. That’s just the smartest idea in at least a week._

When she finally found a pair of flat shoes, she slipped them on her feet, grabbed her makeup bag and multitasked mascara application with peeing _and_ brushing her teeth. She was just throwing on a jacket when Killian’s annoyed _get out here_ message lit up the screen of her (mostly dead) cell phone.

He was parked on the sidewalk like a complete douchebag, but she chose not to comment on it, instead jumping in the passenger seat and telling him to “step on it,” which he took extra literally and jerked the vehicle to life so fast that Emma’s purse flew off her lap and into the dashboard.

“I’m not exactly looking to attend my _own_ funeral today, Killian,” she admonished, making a show of grabbing her purse and tucking it under her seatbelt for _safety_.

Killian clenched his jaw and she’d be blind if she didn’t recognize how weirdly attractive it was – both the physical action and the fact that he wasn’t taking her _fight with me_ bait – so she averted her gaze to everything but the annoying (ever-supportive) Brit she was so oddly OK with allowing to drive her precious _baby_ of a car.

The ten-minute drive was spent in silence, Killian switching off the radio entirely after Kesha’s _Die Young_ came on, and Emma thought that tiny little detail might earn him a small break from being her punching bag, because it was just so thoughtful and sweet and if it weren’t for Killian Jones she’d probably be drunk in an alleyway being searched for by Ruby and Mary Margaret, but he was taking care of her because he was perfect, and _fuck_ she needed to start being nicer to him.

Considering she was one of the featured _speakers_ , having been one of Graham’s closet (platonic) connections, the funeral luckily hadn’t begun _without her_. Especially since it seemed that Killian had alerted everyone to her lateness via text before they’d even left the apartment. She even heard him taking responsibility for her tardiness to David (as she received hugs from Regina and Ruby), citing the strength of the medicine he’d used for himself after Milah passed.

“Yeah, I guess I sometimes forget that she’s just a little thing and probably can’t handle the same dosage as a man of my stature. Though her attitude does suggest otherwise,” he chuckled as David clapped him on the back and she was glad, at the very least, that _someone_ was treating Killian the way he deserved.

The reverend or father or priest or whatever _godly_ man was doing the ceremony must have noticed her arrival, as he called everyone to their seats, motioning for Regina, Emma, and a man Emma hadn’t met before to the aisle just in front of the podium.

Having been an orphan, Graham didn’t have much blood family present – just his great uncle she’d met once at a birthday party – so there was plenty of room at the front for Killian to follow her lead, dutifully sitting next to her and squeezing her hand as the ceremony was called to order.

 

**_2\. Call the deceased an_ asshole _in your eulogy_**

Killian _knew_ he shouldn’t have let her go up there without notes. It was basically a disaster waiting to happen, but he remembered what it was like when people tried to “assist” him in his grieving, to tell him what was and wasn’t OK. He didn’t want to make decisions for her the way he’d remembered others doing for him – but he was starting to see why so many people had _tried_.

You see, when you’re tired and grieving and sad and confused and angry and all the gamut of emotions Emma was currently experiencing, sometimes it did silly things to your brain, like make you forget that there are consequences to the things we do or say. He was happy to let her treat _him_ like shit – she needed to get the negative energy out _somehow_ – but releasing the beast that was _Emma Swan having feelings_ on an entire room full of grieving loved ones, well it wasn’t the smartest thing ever.

(But he didn’t want her to push him away, to hate him. She _needed_ him, and he knew damn well he needed her and he wasn’t going to do anything to sink _that_ ship.)

Regina’s brief speech had been difficult to watch – the person who found the body was usually the most _rattled_ – but it was quick and respectful and celebrated all the great parts of who Graham was (to Killian’s knowledge, anyway).

(It was odd attending a funeral for a man you’d only heard through a wall once, but he’d probably go anywhere to make Emma feel better, so here he sat.)

But Emma, she just wasn’t handling things quite as well. She’d told Killian about her friendship with Graham, about her _regret_ that they never knew each other as much as she would have liked. But he was a good guy, a nice friend, a hard worker, and Killian was glad she’d known him.

Emma, however, was somehow getting caught up on all the wrong things. In front of everyone who’d loved him.

“He cared so much about this town,” Emma began, sipping at her water and scanning the audience before making eye contact with Killian again. “He cared but then he _left_. Because people leave. It happens. Life happens. And he went away and caught all the bad guys everywhere else, and that left us with even more here, and how unfair is _that_? And all because of a relationship gone wrong. Or kind of wrong. I’m not really sure what happened there.” She trailed off a bit and Killian could hear Regina snapping her fingers at Emma to abandon _that_ line of thought, but she just kept on trucking through.

“He was kind of an asshole, you know? He wasn’t always nice to Regina. And he didn’t open up to his friends very much. It’s hard when you only have friends and not family, but we were here for him and we _wanted_ to be his family, but we’re all so stupid sometimes. And the only time he even tried to get closer to me was when he kissed me and that was _so not OK_ , and _yes_ , Regina, I know this isn’t a good beginning to my speech, but it’s _real_ , isn’t it? I miss him already and I didn’t even get to know all of him. And I’m sad and we’re all sad and we’re here to be sad together, so let’s just be honest, OK?”

Emma swayed a little and Killian worried that she might still be loopy from the medicine he never should have given her ( _stick to Nyquil next time, Jones_ ), but she caught herself and sniffled for a moment before launching into far more appropriate stories about long stakeouts with Graham, about watching the Super Bowl with him and making bets on the ridiculous commercials, about how much she _loved_ his dog. (Yes, she’d even paused for a moment to walk down from the podium to that one relative of Graham’s, who was holding the dog’s leash as he lay on the floor, grieving just like the humans at the loss of his best friend.)

“He knew him best, you know. This dog was Graham’s family, and that’s OK,” Emma said, patting the giant German shepherd on the head and smoothing over his ears. “He’s OK now, isn’t he, boy?”

She collapsed to her knees at the dog’s side, and after catching a brief nod from Regina, Killian rose up and shuffled down the pew, crossing over to Emma’s side and hoisting her up by her elbows. Her eyes were glassy and her mouth was twisted in a heartbreaking frown, and he knew damn well he couldn’t do anything to make this moment hurt any less, so he just silently led her back to the casket, where she lay down a red rose and kissed her palm before placing it on the deep brown wood.

It was the first time he’d even _seen_ Graham anywhere but tagged in Emma’s Facebook pictures. But even in death he looked oddly peaceful, like maybe there wasn’t anything _unfinished_ in his life, after all. Killian thought of remarking something like that to Emma, but she just looked too broken, so he led her to her seat and clapped along with the crowd as Emma said her quiet goodbye.

“Sorry we missed our chance.”

 

**_3\. Spill coffee on the casket_ **

She just wasn’t good at this. She should be, for all she’d lost in her life. But the sad truth was that she’d never lost anyone this way that she’d even truly _known_. Neal – yeah, it was hard to say goodbye to him, but that was more like saying goodbye to a possibility rather than a _friend_.

It hurt like a bitch to know that someone she valued was just never going to talk again or laugh or cry or eat chocolate cake and butterscotch ice cream. It just wasn’t _fair_.

The knockout pills Killian had given her had clearly made her delirious (yeah, that was her excuse for the meltdown, and she was sticking to it), so she asked David if he’d grab her something hot to drink after the last speaker had gone.

(It had been Graham’s former Captain, the one from the job he’d left to come back to Storybrooke, and the man was smart, funny, and probably a greater father figure to Graham than he’d known before. _At least he’d gotten that much_.)

Despite wishing for hot chocolate with cinnamon, she was given _coffee_ as everyone milled around, offering comfort to one another as they prepared to move along to Regina’s mansion for the wake. Mary Margaret and Ruby were standing near the casket, so Emma wandered in their direction, tugging at Killian’s suit jacket to encourage him to follow.

She sipped at the bitter coffee and choked a little on the staleness, but kept drinking in attempts to warm her aching chest cavity back to life.

It really was unexpected. Not his death – though, of course, that was quite unexpected as well. Her _reactions,_ though. She’d thought she’d been doing all right. When she’d come to Killian, when they’d talked about their pasts and about her sadness over losing Graham, she’d felt so much more stable, in control. But when the reality of a fucking _funeral_ hit her the night before – and triggered her insomniac weirdness – she seemed to lose all composure. And she was trying to get it back together. She _really_ was. She hadn’t meant to go nuts in front of everyone. She hadn’t meant to make people worry or – god forbid – think she was seeking attention. She was just trying to cope and was failing and maybe Mary Margaret or Ruby could calm her down from doing something insane like setting the church on fire or stealing Graham’s dog and escaping to the woods to live with the wolves.

She was so caught up in her self-imposed guilt trip that she didn’t realize she was about to take a whole different kind of _trip_ – up the stairs that led to the casket. Killian noticed, probably only _one_ second too late, his fingers lacing between hers just as her knees scraped against the top stair and the coffee she’d been holding in the other hand flew forward and audibly _splashed_ against the bottom of the mahogany casket.

“Honey, are you OK?” Mary Margaret squealed, rushing down the stairs to grab Emma’s other hand. She was vaguely aware of several other sets of hands on her, asking her if she was OK – even Regina was at her side murmuring hushed apologies instead of snapping at her, like she would have under _normal_ circumstances.

Damn shoes. They were supposed to _prevent_ this from happening. She was writing to DSW to get her money back. _Sensible, my_ ass _._

Ruby grabbed a dish towel from the church’s basement and rushed back to clean up all she could as Killian led Emma away, hopefully to the car and then to _off a fucking bridge_ because she couldn’t handle the shame and guilt she was about to feel for the entire wake, based on her own (unintentional) obnoxious behavior.

 

**_4\. Drink two entire bottles of wine_ **

Well, between the rambling eulogy and the not-so-graceful stumbling into the casket, everyone basically assumed Emma was wasted. (Not that anyone was judging.) But apparently she’d taken the car ride from the church to Regina’s to decide on proving them _right_.

“Everyone’s thinking it, Killian, I might as well be _feeling_ it,” she justified, plunging the corkscrew into the bottle of merlot and gulping some down less than three seconds after throwing the cork to the side with a _pop_.

She was suffering – more and more each minute, based on all the unfortunate mishaps. And he needed to do something – anything, really – to help her recover from this. He wanted to help her cope with greater finesse than he ever had – and alcohol had certainly been his own downfall after just about every tragedy in his life.

(He couldn’t allow the same for Emma.)

So instead of _parenting_ her or forcefully yanking the wine away from her, he simply offered to pour it himself… and cut it with grape juice on every fill. It was the best of both worlds, really. Emma got the placebo effect of feeling like she was justified in letting go, just _feeling_ all the shit that was boiling inside of her, without leading to her making irreversible, dumbass decisions she’d be regretting for decades to come.

(After Liam had passed, Killian had gone on some drunken tirades that left certain family friends _furious_ with him, and he’d been too proud to apologize for _far_ too long, not recognizing the value of _not pushing people away_ until he’d lost Milah years later. Again, he wouldn’t watch Emma suffer the same way he did, not now and not _ever_.)

Robin finally showed up at the wake about a half hour after everyone else had arrived – he wasn’t able to get out of work that day, it seemed – and Regina ran to hug him with such force that it made even Killian’s chest ache. What an odd situation for his friend to be experiencing – a woman he’s just barely dating mourning the loss of her ex-boyfriend – and yet Killian couldn’t help but notice that Robin looked perfectly content to just let her cry on his shoulder for that whole day and probably the next.

It’s crazy the things we do for love, even when it’s not quite love just _yet_.

Killian didn’t get much time to observe his friend’s quiet moment before Emma was shuffling around trying to find her bottle of wine again ( _god, it was worse than high school with this woman_ ). But he took a brief look inside himself and recognized that exact contentedness he’d seen in Robin’s expression. Killian would chase Emma all night and not complain even once and he wasn’t about to examine _that_ too closely at this very tumultuous moment in her (and his) life.

He’d ducked into the kitchen and dumped juice directly in the wine bottle, handing it back to Emma and telling her to “go for it.” She drank and talked and surprisingly enough calmed down a bit, finally starting to have normal conversations with those Graham loved about all his favorite things.

“You wouldn’t believe how much he loved the arcade,” Emma explained to Ruby, pantomiming skee-ball and _storm chaser_ and that big wheel thing that looked kind of like the end of _Price is Right_. “I think that’s when I realized his friendship was worth it, you know? He was just fun and happy. And, plus, he used his winning tickets to buy ridiculous prizes. It was kind of the best.”

She swayed back and forth with a slight buzz, but Killian still felt safe that she wasn’t out of control or on a one-way train to _vomit town_ , so he just listened to her stories and brought her cheese and crackers and, eventually, led her over to spend a little more time with Robin – the two of them weren’t terribly well-aquatinted quite yet considering that dark week and a half of _avoidance_.

She’d chucked the second empty bottle in the trash when Ruby suggested she perhaps should slow down a bit, and Emma agreed easily, Ruby bringing her another coffee and jokingly warning her not to spill it on anyone important.

Emma laughed and Killian smiled and maybe it wasn’t going to be a disaster of a day, after all.

 

**_5\. Laugh at the choice of music at the wake_ **

God she was such a fucking _disaster_.

She was drunk out of her mind and apparently had no filter and she literally _lost it_ when Regina put on that Death Cab for Cutie song because all she could think about was how much Graham _hated_ emo music and how he’d probably be grumbling _turn that whiny shit off_ and it was entirely inappropriate and awfully disrespectful and even in her wine-addled mind she _knew_ she needed to get herself together but she was 0 percent in control of her faculties at the moment and she was just giggling up a fucking storm and goddamnit this day was getting away from her.

Regina huffed at her and switched the song and Emma felt guilty and bitchy and like she was the single worst human on the planet for a brief moment until the sadness finally took her over again, and before she realized what was even happening the tears were streaming down her face and her chest felt like it was going to crack in _half_ with the force of her sobs and a gentle hand on her back led her to the nearest bathroom.

 

**_6\. Forget to wear waterproof mascara_ **

What were you supposed to do when a woman looked alarmingly like The Joker and hadn’t yet looked in the mirror?

If it were _just_ a drunken night or a hazy morning or any other day in existence, really, Killian would joke, would laugh, would tease, but what did you do when the most beautiful woman in the world had black streaming down her cheeks and red smudges and overall looked a complete _mess_ because she was currently experiencing one of the worst days of her life?

“Emma, love, would you like a tissue?” he offered, and for the first time in the last five minutes Emma seemed to recognize that he was there. She looked a bit startled, but also happy to know she wasn’t alone, and she took the tissue gladly, dabbing at her eyes like it were little tear streaks she was wiping and not an entire cabinet of makeup dripping down her face.

“What’s wrong, Killian?” she finally asked, clearly recognizing his hesitation.

“Um, Emma, I don’t know how to – I need to tell you something. Something, um, awkward.”

“Will you just spit it out?” she grunted, blowing her nose in the tissue and tossing it in the trash.

“Your makeup is running… well, everywhere. Would you – do you want some help?” He was trying not to be pushy or critical or anything that might risk setting her off or making her mad at him, but she half-smiled and responded with a hushed _yes, please_ and he figured he might be doing all right at this _supportive_ thing after all.

He rummaged through Regina’s bathroom drawers until he found a washcloth, wetting it and gently dabbing at Emma’s skin. He was careful around her swollen eyes and tried not to smear the mascara that lingered on her lashes as he added soap and washed the blush off her cheeks and the lipstick off her lips (and chin).

Emma hummed appreciatively and rested her hands on his waist as she leaned against the sink, calmer than she’d been all day.

She chuckled a little when he swiped under her nose (without mentioning the bits of snot clinging to her nostrils) and she thanked him when her eyes fluttered open and he thanked the gods of shitty apartments or serendipity or whatever force led him to moving next door to Emma because it was quickly becoming one of the best decisions he ever made.

Snot and all.

 

**_7\. Make out with your hot best friend in the bathroom_ **

He was just so _nice_. And not in the _I held a door for you; you owe me sex_ kind of faux-nice that many guys claimed to be. No, he was actually nice and decent and she’d been incredibly unfair to him. Today, especially, but before now, too. Because he’d done nothing but be her friend and she kind of loved him for that, for his honesty and caring and his genuinely being _himself_ every moment he was with her.

(And for not killing her last night or tonight when apparently the wiring in her brain went on the fritz.)

She appreciated him and she _liked_ him and he made her feel safe and comfortable and _not alone_. And the last thing she wanted to feel right now was alone.

Sure, she had Ruby and Mary Margaret and David and Regina and all kinds of other people who would take care of her if she truly had a _problem_ or something. There were plenty of people who would come in an emergency. But how many people would wipe her makeup in the bathroom at a wake, would look at her like she was something precious even when she was mostly drunk and _entirely_ a pain in the ass?

She only knew _one_.

“Killian, _thank you_. And – well, I also should apologize for being a raging bitch today. Or a mess. Or something. I’d blame the wine, but we all know it started when I was quite sober,” she admitted, trying her best to give him back the honesty he was always giving _her_.

“Swan, it’s not a problem. I’ve been through some rocky times. And I’m here for you during yours, as long as you’ll have me.”

Instead of responding, she let her hands drift from his waist, all the way around his back, clasping them together as she squeezed him tight and leaned her head against his chest.

He returned the hug immediately, stroking at her back and brushing her braid aside to bury his nose in her neck. It was comfortable and sweet and _warm_ and Emma was craving his closeness like a drug, allowing her still wine-soaked brain to skip right past honest-territory and into _blunt_ and _you probably shouldn’t say this_ -land.

“Can I ask you a favor, Killian?”

“As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with stealing Graham’s body,” he chuckled, and after a split second Emma laughed lightly, recalling the episode of _Bones_ they’d watched together the day before while they ate Kraft mac and cheese and played gin rummy.

“No, nothing like that. I just – you make me feel really warm.”

“Are you cold?” he cut in, starting to shrug out of his suit coat before she could even finish her request.

“Um, no. Sorry, not _that_ kind of warm.”

The confusion in his eyes was adorable and she should be stopping herself because this was in _no way_ fair to him and was definitely crossing a line that even _mutual masturbation through a wall_ didn’t, and she should stop but _nope_ her hormones were apparently ruling her actions today, because before she could reason with herself to just break the hug and run away, her mouth was moving and she was speaking and _fuck_.

“Would you kiss me, Killian?” she looked him dead in his beautiful eyes and as confused as he looked – and as _shocked_ – he responded fairly quickly.

“Would that make you feel better?” he asked with an undeservedly soft expression in his face.

“Yes.”

“And would you be mad at me tomorrow?”

“No!” she shouted, lowering her voice to try to possibly explain what was going through her admittedly screwy brain right now. “I know it’s not a fair question to ask, but I just want to feel… better. And you make me feel less bad with your general existence, and I’m pretty sure I’d feel _lots_ better if you kissed me. I won’t be mad if you won’t, though, I promise. I get it.” That’s when the embarrassment set in and Emma could feel her cheeks on _fire_ even more now than from the alcohol and she turned away, ready to run far, far away, when Killian’s thumb pressed lightly at her chin, turning her to face him again.

“It’s OK, Emma,” he breathed, leaning toward her but keeping his eyes trained on hers. “It’s my job to make you feel better, right?”

He was chuckling but she was feeling guilty. “No! You’re not obligated to do anything and you shouldn’t have to listen to me and deal with all this and –”

Killian cut her off with a soft brush of his lips to hers, keeping his forehead pressed against hers even after he pulled back, his fingers tangled in her braided hair, offering himself up for whatever it was she wanted or needed.

And she should have left it at that, just appreciated the little gesture, the small moment that made her heart swell, but she was greedy and a little bit selfish at the moment and he smelled so good and felt so warm and she just couldn’t imagine living in a world where she’d never _really_ kissed him if, god forbid, he were to leave this Earth before morning.

So she leaned back into him, one of her hands against his chest as the other pulled at his neck to press them together as tightly as she could manage. He sighed and nipped at her upper lip and she opened her mouth, allowing him to explore further as their tongues stroked against one another. She was losing her breath (and, clearly, her sanity), so she moved back just an inch, looking him in the eyes and smiling before diving right back in.

One of his hands trailed down her back and he gripped her waist as the other moved down her arm, his fingers tangling together with hers once they connected. She squeezed his hand in response and kissed him even deeper, warmth blooming in her belly like a flower or a virus and as much as she knew this wasn’t the greatest choice she’d ever made, there was no chance in _hell_ she was going to regret this.

She let him push her even closer to the sink top and just as she was rising up on her toes and grabbing the edge of the sink with her free hand so she could hop up on top of it to settle him more snugly between her legs, a knock sounded and the door opened and Ruby was staring at them in shock and awe and just a little bit of _I fucking knew it_.

To his credit, Killian was cool as a damn cucumber about the whole thing. “Whoops, I suppose we shouldn’t be hogging the only bathroom at a _wake_ ,” he chuckled, squeezing her hand once more before breezing past her and toward the kitchen.

Emma herself was mostly speechless. Ruby stared and Emma stuttered and it was all very awkward until Ruby finally wrapped her arms around Emma like she needed to physically hold her together to keep her from falling apart.

She held Ruby’s embrace for a few moments, appreciating her friend’s uncanny ability to know when she needed words and when she _didn’t_.

They both pulled back and after a long pause, Emma finally spoke. “Why do I always go fucking things up like this?” Emma pulled at her braid and stared at stains on the linoleum and kind of wished she had the power to teleport so she just _exit_ this massively idiotic scene in her wonderfully _stupid_ life.

“Seriously, Emma, if you needed a friend to make out with, you could have called me. I’m here for you,” Ruby joked, tucking a runaway lock of Emma’s hair behind her ear.

“I’ll remember that for next time, Rubes. But unless you can offer me a time machine, that doesn’t exactly help my _current_ predicament.”

“Oh, please. It’s hardly a predicament. You could have pulled him into the bathroom to knee him in the balls and he’d still think the sun shines out your ass. _Juno_ prepared you for this. He’s one of the good ones, sweetie.”

Yeah, that was evident enough by now.

But was _she_ one of the good ones?

(It sure didn’t feel like it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we get back to happy, I swear!


	8. Dear Self, We Can Do This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quick chapter because I'm not feeling well, but still wanted to keep the story moving along!

Killian wasn’t panicking or worrying or assuming the worst – no, he had a little more faith than that in his fiery but not entirely fickle neighbor. But he _was_ just a tad hesitant as he shot off a picture message of the fairly impressive breakfast he’d whipped together in his kitchen.

A tiny whoosh from his phone signaled that the message had sent and a pulse of vibration from across the wall announced it was delivered, but it wasn’t until he heard the groan and sigh from the bedroom next door that he knew the message had actually been received.

“You’re a life saver, Jones,” she mumbled as she hopped out of bed with a _thunk_ , her phone charger scratching against the wall as she yanked it out and started shuffling toward Killian’s apartment.

He opened the door in preparation for her arrival, Killian grabbing the yellow smiley face mug containing black coffee she was no doubt craving.

Her eyes were squinted and her expression _pained_ as she crossed the threshold of his apartment, but when her gaze connected with the steaming cup, she cracked a smile. “Oh thank god,” she muttered, snatching the mug from him with enough force to splash a few drops on Killian’s sleep shirt. She was a little too focused to fully notice, probably burning her tongue on the near-boiling liquid, but she sighed again in relief and he figured the need for caffeine had outweighed her pain avoidance instinct.

“Hmmm. I like yellow,” she commented as she finally stopped to appreciate the mug, climbing up on the closest barstool with another groan.

“I’m aware.” (He may have catalogued some _Emma_ facts in his brain over the course of their friendship for times like this – _mornings after_ that threatened to unravel the very fabric of their relationship if it wasn’t executed just so.

The night before had been exhausting. After the funeral, the wake, the making out in the bathroom, Emma was far more subdued, mostly talking quietly about Graham and receiving hugs (and drinks that contained _zero_ alcohol). But he was worried and she was worried, and it wasn’t until late into the night that they were even _alone_ and he certainly didn’t want to discuss the latest incident on one of the most difficult nights of her life.

So once Ruby and Whale left Emma’s apartment, he put on a death-less movie and waited until she fell asleep, carrying her to her bed and tucking her in before seeing himself back to his side of the wall and trying to plan how exactly to keep his hopes down but her expectations _up_.

She’d mostly sobered up by the time she passed out, but she was still sure to have a headache in the morning (and probably some regret), so he spoke quietly and with comfort and absolutely avoiding anything controversial. “Care for a walk today, Swan? It’s quite a nice day, and activity helps to flush the wine out.”

Emma piled pancakes and bacon and fruit onto a plate and threw him a smile as he poured her some orange juice. “Maybe later? I’m still so tired.” Her mouth was full and she kind of looked like a chipmunk, but Killian was just happy to be helping the only way he knew how – just _being there_ (and providing food, of course).

-

Emma had been awake longer than she cared to admit, just staring at Killian’s number on her phone. Sure, she could knock, but he’d been pretty silent over there are morning and was probably sleeping, and she was mostly just looking to break the ice before the metaphorical ice ever had a chance to harden after her whole ridiculous _kiss me in the bathroom at my friend’s wake_ business.

Why couldn’t Emma just learn to have some fucking chill?

But she didn’t regret it. He’d made her feel good and safe and lighter than she ever should after saying the forever kind of goodbye to a good man, a good friend. But she couldn’t even feel _guilt_ over that.

Graham would have liked him. He would have been happy for her if she’d just had the sense to share with him her developing friendship, would have been even happier that she’d _snogged_ the guy in his ex-girlfriend’s bathroom (damn British men and their adorable slang).

She spent at least a half hour talking herself down from climbing out her own damn window before she heard Killian crawl out of bed, use the restroom, and start preparing breakfast. Based on the sheer amounts of dishes and pans clanging about, he was certainly making enough for her – so she tried some new age meditation shit to try to calm her stupid nerves for when he inevitably invited her over.

When the photo came through, instead of focusing on the delicious heap of _yum_ at the forefront of the attachment, her eyes drifted toward the tiny contact photo in the corner that she’d taken of Killian a few weeks back.

God, he was unfairly hot. And an incredible kisser.

(And she _so_ wanted to do it again.)

(But she couldn’t and she _shouldn’t_ and dear lord, Emma, fucking _calm yourself_.)

When she propped herself up and pushed herself off the bed, it was almost like those two bottles of wine she’d consumed the day before had knocked her straight in the head. She groaned and grumbled and stared at the food lighting up her phone and convinced herself she could handle some slight awkwardness for the sake of _bacon_. And her best friend.

 _We can do this_.

 

Their breakfast was easy and happy (and delicious), and when Killian asked for the second time if they could take a walk, she took a few minutes to _freshen up_ (and, you know, put on a bra) and she knock-knock-knocked her way back to Killian’s apartment, giggling at the newest sight as she threw the door open.

“Ahoy, matey!” Killian bellowed, tipping a feathered pirate cap with his oversized plastic hook and bowing theatrically.

“Ahoy?” she giggled. “Who talks like that?”

“Dashing rapscallions of course! I was thinking, Swan. It’s a real travesty that we’ve known each other so long and you haven’t yet seen my ship. She’s a beauty.”

“ _She_? I feel obligated to ask if you think you’re in a sexual relationship with a boat. Because I’m not entirely certain you’ve obtained proper consent and that’s not _good form_.”

“Whoa, whoa whooaaa,” Killian started, shaking his head and waving his hook and looking positively furious with Emma in a way he hadn’t ever before (including when she’d _actually_ done something wrong… dork). “First of all, it’s not a _boat_. It’s a _ship_. Second and more importantly, don’t be crass about a man’s love for the sea.”

 _God, he was too easy_. “Who exactly are you loving here, Captain? The water or the _ship_? Or is it a polyamorous situation? I just want to clarify.” Emma burst out laughing and it hurt her aching head, but it also felt good and light and _free_ , so much so that she hadn’t even thought to question why the hell he was dressing like a pirate for their walk in the first place.

Killian stared in disbelief as she giggled and heaved and all-out l _ost it_ until finally she caught her breath and his features softened and something like _relief_ flooded his (unfairly pretty) eyes.

“Oh, Swan, I’ll have you know I’ve got plenty of room in my heart for lovers of all kinds.” He winked and it shouldn’t be attractive because the conversation was _ridiculous_ and he was dressed like a goddamn cartoon, but holy _shit_ he was undeniably gorgeous.

“Aren’t you going to ask about the costume, love? Or have I bewitched you, body and soul?”

“Oh my god you _were_ watching _Pride and Prejudice_ when I ignored you last week.”

“Oh my god you _were_ ignoring me,” he gasped in mock-horror, his American valley girl accent a little bit too skilled to have been without considerable practice. The two of them laughed at each other and at themselves and the situation and by the time it dawned on Emma that they’d crossed into what should be very awkward conversation territory, she was long past any discomfort about noisy masturbating or post-funeral kissing or really anything at all.

Holy _shit_ this must be what trust felt like.

The feeling enveloped her and she wanted nothing more than to _hug_ him for taking care of her the way he did, being her friend, her support, even her own personal jester at times. She appreciated him and was so thankful for him and couldn’t keep herself from launching herself at him, her arms closing around his waist as she tucked her nose against his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to lace all the sincerity she was capable of into those two tiny (but huge) syllables.

(And this could go terribly. He could ask her questions or tell her she was crazy or unleash an extensive bout of honesty about how selfish and rude she could be, about how she made his life nothing but _worse_.)

But instead he breathed, “you’re welcome,” patted her back, and plopped something very ungracefully onto her head.

“What the – ?” Emma yanked at the material, bursting into laughter once again at her realization that he’d gifted her with a matching hat.

“What do you say, love, be my first mate for the day?” He bowed and whisked his non-hooked hand dramatically behind him, pulling a flask from his back pocket and presenting it to her.

“Uh, Killian, I’ll be your first mate, but I’m _not_ doing shots with you.” God, she was _never_ drinking again.

“I figured as much. It’s root beer in there. But I wanted you to feel like a true pirate the first time I take you to my ship!”

He was so giddy – it was infectious. “As you wish, Captain. But what happened to _America_ over _Hook_?”

“Well you told me to go for Captain America if I wanted Peggy Carter. Maybe I want a badass blonde bombshell who’s secretly a princess.”

“Captain Hook never had a love interest, genius,” she countered, secretly flattered that he was even facetiously hinting at her being any of those things.

“Oh, but he _would_.” Killian winked – again, the bastard – and offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”

He was a dork. Seriously, you’d never guess from the “pirate” swagger and devastating good looks, but once you let that man in your life for more than five minutes, it was clear he was nothing but a giant _goof_.

And she couldn’t be happier.

“We shall,” she replied, grasping his arm and letting him lead her out the door and down to the docks.

-

The walk to his ship was quiet, each of them making small comments here and there about passing dogs and cakes in windows and people who truly didn’t know how to dress for the weather, but mostly they just enjoyed the warm sun on their skin and the light breeze and the fact that despite the world being a shitty, idiotic, stupid place, at least they weren’t suffering it alone.

Killian couldn’t believe the day was going so smoothly. Actually he couldn’t believe that he _could_ believe it. He believed in her and in their friendship and while, yes of fucking _course_ he hoped she’d pull him into a bathroom and kiss him senseless again sometime soon, that was certainly not the thing he was trying so desperately to keep holding onto.

The docks were busy when they arrived, and it wasn’t until he received probably a _tenth_ quizzical look from a stranger that he remembered he and Emma were dressed like the bloody Captains Hook.

“What, are you suddenly ashamed of your costuming, captain?” she challenged, tipping her hat toward a young couple and sing-songing a chipper _top of the mornin’ to you_.

Yeah, she was definitely confusing _pirate_ with _leprechaun_ , but he wasn’t about to correct her when she was smiling consistently for the first time in weeks.

A sea gull dipped dangerously close to them and he ( _not_ Emma) shrieked, and he tried desperately to regain some testosterone or man-cred or whatever he’d need to come back from that kind of cowardly show.

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” Emma joked, raising her fists in the air in defense. “Just show me to your boat – I mean _ship_ and we’ll take cover.”

“Ah, yes! _The_ _Jewel_ is just ahead.” He broke ahead of her, almost skipping until he came to a rest next to a yellow and blue _vision_ , the ship that used to belong to his favorite uncle, the ship that _would have_ belonged to his brother if he’d just _survived_ , the ship he was using to take back his damn _life_ after it seemingly fell apart (things fell back together sometimes, right? Aye, this ship was _proof_ ).

Wall Street had been _killing_ him, long before he’d lost Milah. He wanted to work harder for her, to give her all the diamonds and fancy trips he could – she wanted nothing more than to explore the world and all its wonders – but his work wasn’t giving him enough time to just enjoy those little moments, the sunny afternoons taking a casual stroll.

Maybe it wasn’t fair that he was making up for lost time now – now that it was too late for Milah to appreciate it. But at least it wasn’t too late for _him_.

“Isn’t she a beauty, Swan?” Emma was rolling her eyes at his overexcitement, but he knew damn well she found it endearing, so he just caressed his hand along the ship’s rail as he reverently boarded her.

“She’s… large?”

“Really, Emma, this is a _regal_ vessel. It could transport across _realms_. And you’re only impressed with his size?” He could make a very easy joke here, but he bit his tongue.

“Well I don’t know anything about sailing. It looks complicated.”

“It is. But worth it, I assure you.”

“So are we taking her out then?” Emma wandered across the deck, ascending a set of stairs to the helm, tracing her fingers along it and staring dumbstruck at the ropes and rigging and what probably looked to her a bit like _magic_.

 _Shit_. It was time to spill. “Actually, no. I have a confession to make.” His palms were sweating like he was about to bloody _propose_ , not ask for a simple favor from a friend.

“Most men do,” she deadpanned.

 _Deep breath, Jones. We can do this._ “I actually wanted to ask you a favor. We talked about it a while ago – though admittedly I’m guessing you probably didn’t think I was _serious_. Anyway, _um_ … ”

“I’ll do it.”

Did he black out and forget the part where actually asked her? “Did I actually ask the question?”

“No, but I’m in. Whatever it is. Unless you’re asking me to be part of some weird four way with the boat and the water. It’s weird enough we already had a three way with Regina’s sink last night,” she said with a cavalier smirk.

Well this was different. Easy. Hopefully the start of something _better_.

“No, Miss Swan. I’m asking you to be my _Elizabeth_.

“Is this a _Pride and Prejudice_ thing again? Because you’re _not_ Mr. Darcy.”

“Look at the hat, Emma. Do you think we’re talking Regency England here?”

Her face lit up and Killian’s heart very well might have skipped. “ _Oh my god!_ Do I get to be Elizabeth Swann, the Pirate King of the Brethren Court?!”

“Only if you’re OK with sword fighting Will in front of tourists.”

“Oh _hell_ yes. I’m going to make you proud.”

(If only she knew how much he already was.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is called "Hoist the Colors" and it's very piratey I'm very excited about it.


	9. Hoist the Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally feeling better! So here's the next chapter.

She’d agreed way too fast. She should have let him sweat it out, should have tried to bargain for something, just tried to look a little less desperately eager.

(Shoulda, coulda, woulda.)

But, no, she’d agreed before he’d even asked and she wasn’t the least bit sorry for it.

Well she hadn’t been, anyway, until she realized exactly what she was getting herself into.

“What do you mean, we need to go to the costume shop? Pirate hat. Right here.” Emma pleaded, not looking to rom-com up her life with a changing room montage (and also not looking to max out a credit card on rayon and spandex she’d wear all of once in her life).

“Emma, do I strike you as the type to do anything halfway? This isn’t just a _throw on a hat and say arrrggh a lot_ kind of performance here. I’m going to need 100 percent dedication from you to make it really work.” Oh, _of course_. Mister Perfect had to slip and be a stereotypical guy once in a while, right?

“From _me_? Isn’t this _your_ business we’re talking about?”

“Of course, love, but I need to test out the atmosphere and see if hiring actors is the best option. I need to really _sell_ the experience for everyone, and while I’m not a poor man by any means, I don’t have unlimited capital. So I need you and Will to live up to your names and be my Will and Swann until I can figure out if I need to hire _real_ ones. Savvy?”

“I’m guessing that makes you Jack then?”

“Gives me an excuse to drink on the job, right?” He waggled his eyebrows and wiggled his hips and when he recognized her entire lack of amusement, he bowed his head in apology. “Kidding.”

“You won’t see me getting on a boat with you if you have a drink in your hand, _captain_.”

“I assure you milady,” he said with a gallant bow. “The only drink in my hand will be coffee. And a lot of it, actually. As we start somewhat… early.”

Once again, it may have benefitted her to pause three seconds before agreeing to this whole stand-in actress deal, if only just to get all the actual facts. “Early? I assumed it was a nighttime deal.”

“Well, yes, parties are generally evening deals. I do a lot of afternoon excursions also. But given that we’re on the East coast and the sun over water is one of the greatest draws of these kinds of adventures, _sunrise_ events are also quite popular. So I’m giving it a try.” Killian looked something between sorry and smug and she wanted to slap his stupid face for assuming she’d be OK with this.

But then she thought of the breakfast that morning, the wake, the funeral, his never ending patience with her, the way he always seemed to know exactly what she needed and never once complained that she was impossible (even though she knew damn well she was), and she gracefully resigned to the fact that she’d be OK with just about anything when it came to that man.

-

The costume shop was only a few blocks from the marina, so Killian and Emma had leisurely walked there, Killian’s heart racing the whole time despite the absolute lack of physical exertion.

But there was _emotional_ exertion, he damn well knew. It was getting harder to view Emma as simply his friend, as _just his neighbor_ , as anything other than his fucking soulmate (probably). Being near her calmed him, even when she was in hysterics. Talking to her made him happier, smarter, better, and kissing her had mostly knocked his world off its axis even though it technically changed nothing of his feelings for her. No, he’d wanted to kiss her since the day she practically busted his door down, cranky about his noisy self-love. But he didn’t realize exactly how much he _needed_ her – how much he’d actually been able to put behind him and _move on_ – until she kissed him in the middle of the bathroom at her coworker’s wake.

So now it was like the stakes had been raised. Every interaction with her made his palms sweat like he was 12 years old and trying to ask a pretty girl to the Year 8 Christmas ball even though he knew quite well he could just _ask her out_ considering her walls were taller than a goddamn beanstalk and there were probably worse than giants to face if you scaled it too fast.

(Her avoidance would be his consequence, and that he simply couldn’t handle. So awkward sweaty palms it was.)

The costume shop was _huge_. It didn’t quite make sense for the size of the town for such a thing to exist, but hey – apparently this town took its fantasy _very seriously_. Which worked to his advantage, as fantasy was exactly what he was selling.

“So are you buying, Jones?” Emma hadn’t even made it in the door to see prices, but the quality of costume in the window was enough to clearly have her worried.

“Of course, love. Though the word is ‘renting.’ So try not to take your wench costume out for any adventures with the men folk. Dry cleaning is expensive.” The thought of Emma and another man made him almost literally choke on his own spit, but he played it off as a rough chuckle and smirked (or grimaced, he really couldn’t tell).

“First of all, yuck. I don’t just pick up strangers. _Anymore_. Second of all, I believe I agreed to be a pirate king, not a wench.” She pursed her lips and quirked an eyebrow and Killian had to calm his fucking shit because she was too cute for words. Well, she was far more than _cute_. But he was trying to calm his shit and _cute_ was far more appropriate than anything else he was thinking.

“Well _pirate king_ isn’t an official costume. So we’ll be finding a lady pirate one. Which will probably be labeled as _pirate wench_. Just being honest, darling.”

“Ugh, fine. As long as I look good.”

(He had no doubt that she’d look far better than _good_ but he bit his tongue and held open the door for Emma to venture inside.)

There were hundreds of costumes. Thousands, probably. From Santa Claus to Disney princess to Shakespeare hero to outfits he can only assume were meant for the bedroom and no further – this place was stocked.

The pirate section was clearly marked and quite robust – but Emma had somehow wandered in the opposite direction, her face a near double of the heart-eyes emoji as she approached a red satin ballgown, long sleeved and scoop necked and absolutely stunning.

(But, of course, not at all what they were looking for.)

“Swan! Stay on task if you will?”

She gave him a small smile over her shoulder as she continued to pet the fabric reverently. “But it’s so pretty.”

“Indeed. But not very piratey, wouldn’t you say?”

She groaned and dragged her feet as she made her way back toward the costumes they were actually there for and Killian’s heart swelled in his chest and oh fucking hell he was totally _gone_.

Emma browsed through the lady pirate costumes – mostly labeled variations of _wench_ , just as Killian had predicted – and pulled out a few different options that were badass but not bordering on _slutty_. She begrudgingly tried them on – and never even cracked a smile in the brief moments she exited the changing room to get his opinion. She looked incredible in all of them because she’d look incredible in anything. Or nothing. But they settled on a mostly black leather number with some red accents that looked the closest to Elizabeth Swann’s _At World’s End_ costume – while still showing off Emma’s loveliest assests.

“God, this thing is going to crush my spleen,” Emma complained, tugging at the strings of the corset and twisting her torso to reposition the boning.

“Well your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear,” he responded, his eyes unabashedly raking her over. She blushed and _almost_ smiled before whooshing her way back into the changing room, clearly ready to get back to yoga pants and tee shirts.

(In which she was breathtakingly beautiful as well. In case you were wondering.)

God, he needed a cold shower. Or the opposite of a little blue pill. Did they make that? He was going to need it if he was going to come out of this _professional endeavor_ with his dignity in tact.

-

Emma wasn’t proud of how many times she’d tried on the outfit.

(Thirteen in two days, in case you were wondering.)

She shouldn’t do it. Kilian could show up at any time and it wasn’t exactly _easy_ to get out of and he’d never let her hear the fucking end of it if he saw her playing pirate dress up.

But she looked good and she felt good and she needed to get used to not being able to breathe while walking and talking and chatting and _it was basically part of the job description, right_?

Flimsy excuses aside, she was happy. She’d always wanted to be Elizabeth Swann, ever since the first _Pirates of the Caribbean_. She’d had a weird crush on Will (the total opposite of Neal) and she loved the outfits and the fact that Elizabeth wanted the blacksmith/pirate over the successful Navy man.

(And, you know, _ew_ since that dude was a grown up when Emma was a kid.)

Plus, even though their names were spelled different, it secretly let Emma believe she came from something great. Royalty even. Maybe if the family had been the Swanns and not the Swans, they might not have given her up (extra n means extra niceness).

It was silly but Emma had looked up to Elizabeth. And now she got to _be_ her.

(And she was _hot_ and she knew it. And, yeah, she did quite enjoy the wide _pop_ of Killian’s pretty blue eyes when she walked out of the dressing room. He’d done everything he could to temper his reaction, but she saw the oh-so-brief wanting, and yes, she’d _liked_ it.)

This time she’d justified putting on the outfit by claiming (to her own fucking brain) that she needed to pick out the right boots. But she’d completed that task two _Castle_ s ago, and she was honestly pretty uncomfortable (and a little bit sweaty) and yet she was still sprawled out on the couch in her leather corset, just waiting away the afternoon until it was time to head to Killian’s ship to _practice_.

And to meet the real-life Will. Whom she was 105% positive she would _not_ develop a crush on.

So far she’d only spoken to him through the wall, through text messages, and on the phone. But he _was_ Killian’s friend and her _acting partner_ and she was going to have to figure out how to not slap his stupid smug face when he inevitably said something idiotic.

(Then again, _Elizabeth_ would slap him and she _was_ Elizabeth, after all.)

(Self restraint. She was going to have to learn that someday, wasn’t she?)

The murders and such had apparently distracted her a little _too_ much because her worst nightmare came true and Killian knocked on her door, ready to walk with her to the boat. Well, ship.

Fuck.

“Just a second!” she called, just as he opened the door.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

His eyes popped and she froze. “Swan! You’re looking quite fetching. Did you decide to become a full time pirate? Remember you don’t get to keep the outfit past this weekend, love.”

Shiiiiiit. How to recover from this one…

“Isn’t this dress rehearsal? I assumed you wanted me in the outfit.”

He smirked at that. “Pretty sure a lot of people would want you in it. But, no, we’re just going over the basics of how you and Will are going to interact with each other and guests. You don’t need to be in the leather for that. Not that I’ll complain if you decide you want to keep it on…”

“Just let me change,” she cut him off, slamming her bedroom door so she could change (and control her blushing. That was very important, too.)

He only lightly mocked her on their walk to the docks and for that she was grateful. He always kept things light and happy and even though he’d been a little skittish recently, it was still always about making her day _better_ or at the very least not worse.

He really was the best friend she could have asked for. And, like the idiot she was, she’d _hated_ him at first. God, she hated when Mary Margaret was right.

She must have been staring at him in awe or some kind of sweet contemplation because he was staring back at her like she had six eyes and a mustache and yet it was still a pleasant gaze and _god_ , how did she ever get this lucky to have this man move next door to her?

(Maybe it was karma.)

“Are you OK, Emma?” Killian whispered, his hand gently brushing the crook of her elbow to slow her pace and get her to look at him again.

“Never better, Captain. Now let’s get this over with.”

 

Will was an _ass_. He kept suggesting kisses and touches and salacious little jokes and Emma was _not having it_.

“Killian, when do we get to the part where I _stab him_?” Killian looked like his annoyance level was dangerously close to her own, but Will just kept smirking and laughing and calling her _sweetheart_ and for the first time she was kind of regretting this whole arrangement.

“Will, can you please not annoy the pretty lady out of doing this? There are a lot of men coming to this retreat and I’m sure they’re going to be far more entertained by her than you.” Killian rolled his eyes and retrieved the play swords from their place resting at the helm. “Now, I’d like you guys to be able to do a little swordfighting, but if I’m in danger of either of you _actually_ stabbing the other, my insurance won’t cover it.”

He stared daggers at Will, who was clearly offended by the implication. “Hey, she’s the violent one not me.”

“But you’re inciting it.”

“I don’t see how that’s me problem.”

“Of course you don’t,” Emma muttered, clenching her teeth and balling her fists. God, she just had no patience for arrogant douchebags.

And she wasn’t honestly sure how _Killian_ did. He was such an awesome guy. Level-headed. Sweet. Kind. Funny. He had his moments of (faux) overconfidence, but it was all defense mechanisms and silly attempts at humor. He and Will were very different. And she supposed there was a story about how two very different people became or remained friends, imagined there was some very deep ties binding them. But for right now she just couldn’t imagine anything redeemable about his frat boy attitude and chauvinistic jokes.

(Deep down she knew he was probably masking some pain, too, but honestly there was a limit to what she could tolerate. Even when it was understandable or justifiable or excusable based on its “harmless” nature. She’d had her fill of assholes in life to say the least.)

“Emma?” Killian called, tossing her the sword. “Can I trust you with this?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

-

He _knew_ it would end this way. Will was definitely a meddler and an ass and yes even an inspirer of physical violence.

“Killian, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have – ”

“Emma, _don’t_. I would have punched him, too. You just beat me to it is all.”

The waiting room at the hospital was awfully busy for a weekday afternoon. The TV was inexplicably on a news channel that specialized in overhyped murder cases and the heat was on way too high for the current mild temperatures and Killian was so frustrated with his friend that he kind of wanted to punch the other side of his lip just to give him symmetrical gashes.

Yeah, Emma had split his lip open _but good_. Four stitches to put it back together. And he honestly couldn’t have been prouder.

Killian was teaching Emma a few basic swordfighting steps – she and Will were only doing a small demonstration, but it would requite a bit of choreography. So he stepped behind her – very careful to keep his front parts from making contact with her ass – and gripped her sword lightly over her own hand, guiding her where to keep her fingers and how to move it through their little 30 second skit.

“If we’re Will and Elizabeth, why are we fighting each other?” Emma’d asked softly against his cheek. And just when he was about to respond about them having a funny little spat and it mostly being for humor, Will opened his big fucking mouth (and sealed his own fate).

“Obviously so Killian would have an excuse to do _this_ ,” Will had said (bitterly), waving his hand toward the very innocent choreography lesson.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Emma had shot back, pushing away from Killian and gripping the sword just a little too tight for (Will’s) safety.

“Oh, come on, lass. You can’t actually believe this sad bloke spends time with you for any reason but to get in your pants. Wake up, sweetheart.”

Emma had taken three very purposeful steps forward and her right hook knocked him on his ass, blood spurting out of his mouth where his tooth had sliced it open.

And it served him fucking right.

He knew the man had some issues. After he lost Ana – a story he was never actually privy to the details on – he had gotten pretty cranky with life. Very bitter. Hopeless when it came to love.

And apparently he’d sniffed out Killian’s feelings for his neighbor and wasn’t very happy about it.

Emma had been furious, of course, because the suggestion that she was nothing but a piece of ass to someone she at the _very least_ considered to be a friend would _hurt_. Killian couldn’t imagine the feeling of being reduced to that, especially considering Emma’s considerable amazing-ness.

But from his own point of view, to see his extra attentions toward her boiled down to _he wants to fuck her_ was completely offensive. Obviously he _would_ fuck her (he even told her as much). She’s beautiful and smart and perfect. But more than that he could imagine spending his whole _life_ with her. She was so much more than a one-night stand. Infinitely more than a one-time thing. And yeah, Emma didn’t know that he felt that way – at least he _hoped_ it wasn’t so obvious. Because having thoughts about that toward your skittish neighbor would probably lead to her bolting.

But so could the implication that he was faking nice all in service of his own cock.

She didn’t _seem_ to believe that. But she’d been pretty quiet on the drive to the hospital and then the whole time in the waiting room. Up until her apology attempt, she hadn’t spoken for ten minutes at least, her last words being about the waiting room’s stale coffee and large number of hacking children.

It didn’t seem like she believed him, but it _had_ struck a nerve with her. It had scratched at some insecurity and he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut or he’d regret it forever.

Killian hesitated a few times, but eventually reached out and placed his hand on her knee, almost no pressure to his gentle strokes. “You know he’s wrong, right?”

Emma seemed to snap out of a reverie, her eyes connecting with his almost desperately. “Of _course_ he’s wrong. I just can’t stand him. I’m sorry – I know he’s your friend, but I can’t. I can’t do this with him or I’ll end up punching him again. I’m not nothing. I was _never_ nothing. You’re my _best_ friend and he made me feel like a whore instead and I’m not OK with that. I just – I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was quiet but rough with emotion, nearly breaking a few times in her short speech. And Killian was nearly breaking at the expression on her face, a kind of sad he hadn’t yet seen from her despite their recent experiences with grief.

“You’re my best friend, Emma Swan, and you’re anything but a whore.” He firmly took her hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing lightly when she smiled. “You’re a _wench_ , remember?”

He winked and she rolled her eyes (but giggled) and Killian felt mostly content that it was only _Will_ she was angry at. The arse.

“He’s the one who’s out, Emma. I still need you to be my Elizabeth.”

“Then who’s Will? Will Turner I mean. Do you think Robin would do it?”

“He would but he has a date with Regina the night before and he’s not willing to give up on morning sex for my benefit.”

“Yuck. I didn’t need to know that.”

“I’m sorry. But if I have to be scarred for life with TMI about my friends’ sex lives… well I’m scarring you, too.”

Emma rolled her eyes again, yanking her hand out of his. “What a gentleman.”

(But she smiled.)

“Actually,” Killian began, fetching his phone from his back pocket. “I have an idea.”

-

Damn, that man was _smart_.

Sure, romances sold movie tickets. Especially to women. But when it was a company retreat that was mostly men, you know what drew their attention? Cleavage.

Sure, he knew that before – hence asking Emma. But when Will had his little bitter meltdown, that apparently gave Killian the brilliant idea to double the boobs. AKA: have Ruby step in and help out, too.

She looked enough like Penelope Cruz to pull of her _On Stranger Tides_ part and honestly none of the guys would be very concerned with plot when Emma and Ruby were in their sexy pirate outfits.

Basically, Killian struck gold. And he knew it the second the customers started arriving.

It was early in the morning. Way too early. The sun wasn’t even up yet – they wanted to be out on the water by the time the sun actually rose. And at first they were all yawning and dragging their feet and _begging_ Killian (dressed as Jack Sparrow, of course) for more coffee.

But when Emma and Ruby stepped to the helm, there wasn’t a single complaint.

(And, yes, Emma was very proud of that.)

She and Ruby served their caffeinated beverages and asked them about their jobs. They laughed with them and told sweetly accented pirate stories and had them all in stitches before they’d even made it out on the water. Killian was mostly just busy sailing the boat, but the few women on board flocked to him anyway, touching his fake beard and asking him about the pieces of the ship and giggling – so much giggling.

Emma was slightly jealous, of course, but it was all about sales. Showing the clients a good time. Playing pirates as an actual grown-up _job_.

(So much better than bail bondsperson-ing.)

As the sun began to rise, Emma and Ruby led the group to the deck, offering to take photos with and of them with the yellow-pink-orange sunrise streaking behind them. It was really kind of beautiful.

When Killian lowered the anchor he came up to the crowd and started in on a probably only half true story about a stormy sea one expedition, throwing in a few pirate terms and clear exaggerations and even a few folk tales. Everyone – guys included – were positively enthralled. No one- not even Emma and Ruby – were cranky about the time when they were having this much fun.

“Emma, you have a little something right here,” Ruby whispered, tapping on the edge of her mouth.

“Shit! What is it? Did I smear this bright ass lipstick? _Shit_.” She flipped up her skirts in search of her cell phone – selfie cameras were the new pocket mirrors – when Ruby started giggling.

“I think it’s drool, honey. You’re sure enjoying this view aren’t you?” She winked and smiled her wolfish grin and Emma should have been cranky with her, but it was probably _true_.

How embarrassing.

-

He was a goddamn genius.

Why had he ever asked Will at all? Ruby was a hundred times more personable than him. And probably a thousand times hotter. She and Emma were absolutely killing it with charming these corporate stooges. By the time they were serving brunch he’d booked two more sailing adventures in the coming _month_ with interest for several more later in the year.

It was as if all his dreams were coming true, all of his hard work paying off. He loved to sail, loved to entertain. It was infinitely more rewarding than _stocks_ had been, despite the smaller paychecks these days. He was just so happy and – even better – he was _successful_. He was going to _make it_. (Probably.)

Nothing could bring him down from this high.

If he weren’t lying to himself, then _yeah_ it was a little hard watching Emma and Ruby flirt and swoon and giggle. They were smooth and intelligent and interesting – not at all like brainless models or _companions_ or the like – and the guests were eating it up. Ruby was a little more aggressive with her flirting (as was her personality), but Emma was still scoring smirks and longing glances left and right. As they were cleaning up the pastries and the fruit, Killian saw one gentleman slip Emma a slip of paper – most likely his number. He was proud of her for playing the pirate King so well, but it still stung _just a little_.

Until her eyes met his a split second later. She winked and gave him a thumbs up, ripping the scrap of paper in half and tossing it overboard.

Nothing could bring him down.

 

When they disembarked at the docks, Killian had much to clean up, much to record and balance and all that official _shit_ , but he was tired and hungry and overall _exhausted_.

Emma and Ruby said their goodbyes as soon as they stepped off the ship – Ruby had a lunch date she was running late for already – but Emma scurried back up onto the ship as soon as she pulled away.

“What do we do next?” she asked with far more enthusiasm and energy than he could fathom having at this point.

“Jeez, Swan, have you been mainlining coffee?”

“I’m just so excited for you!” she shouted, uncharacteristically bouncing up and down. “I’m sorry, you’re just so good at this. And people _loved_ you. Seriously. I’m so happy you asked me to do this. I think we’re safe to say that hiring actresses would be beneficial.”

“I might have to hire you and Lucas. I think it was you two they loved.”

“Sure, we made them feel good about themselves. But you made them feel like they were on a real adventure. And – well, you made _me_ feel like I was on an adventure. So thank you.” She blushed a little, but he didn’t comment on it, just soaking up her excitement like sunshine.

“No, thank _you_ , love. Now what do you say, time for some celebratory grilled cheese and onion rings?”

Emma’s grin spread wider and she gripped his hand and pointed herself toward the diner. “Lead the way.”

-

The corset fucking _hurt_. Once the adrenaline of the sailing and acting and false flirting burned off, her pain tolerance dropped to _zero_. She and Killian were waiting at the counter for their food and she was trying to play it cool but holy fucking _shit_ she was almost entirely certain she was not going to be able to swallow anything, let alone greasy diner food.

“Hey, Killian…” her voice was small and strained and concern was clear on his face as soon as he looked at her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um, could we get these to go? I need out of this outfit. I’m going to have marks on my waist for three months, minimum.”

He chuckled and traded a small wad of cash for a grease-stained brown paper bag. “Of course, Swan.”

The walk to their apartments was painful but quick. Killian had offered to carry her on his back, but she was pretty sure that position would only make the ribbing of her corset dig further into her organs and the prospect wasn’t the least bit appealing.

Killian commented on a few of her more interesting pirate stories and she tried not to laugh (because _ouch_ ) and she started undoing the laces of the corset the second Killian slid her key into her apartment door. “Whoa, whoa, Swan, warn a man before you start stripping.”

“Shut up and help me, please,” Emma asked, groaning as she caught one of the laces on a snap on her middle back.

Killian made quick work of the complicated lacing, lifting up on the leather once it was loose enough to move. “I’ve closed my eyes, Emma, don’t worry,” he explained, tugging it off her body. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed and she had to clamp her mouth shut to not moan a little bit at the contact.

Once the corset was totally off, she scurried to her room and shut the door, catching a brief but horrifying glance at herself in the mirror. “Holy shit.”

Killian knocked on the door lightly. “Are you ok?”

Shit. She was seriously going to have bruises from that damn outfit. A few scrapes, too, from the snaps at the bottom.

(And she didn’t regret it.)

“I’m fine. Sorry, just saw the marks the corset left. Don’t mind me but I am _not_ putting a bra on right now. The girls need some air.” She chuckled and threw on a fundraiser t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants and all but sprinted back to the kitchen to her food. “I can breathe again!”

“Excellent to hear, Swan. Want to watch some TV? I recorded a few movies during the free HBO weekend.”

“You’re only friends with me for my TiVo aren’t you?” she asked after swallowing a large bite of grilled cheese.

“That and your heavily stocked fridge. Speaking of, what do you have by way of beverages? I’m parched.” He tossed a tiny onion ring in his mouth and flashed her a batter-splattered smile and her heart clenched in her chest.

_Shit_. What were the chances this _wouldn’t_ end badly?

(Worth the risk.)

 

( _Probably_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: "With Cinnamon." Things start getting... spicy.


	10. With Cinnamon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the spice.

Killian was on a slippery slope. Sure, he’d accepted that he was well over half in love with his incredible neighbor. But he’d also accepted that _acting on that_ could lead to losing her forever.

It was his worst nightmare, really, that he’d wake up one day, knock on his bedroom wall to ask Swan if she’d help him with a project, only to be met with an annoyed stranger grunting about the noise and _leave me the fuck alone_. After all, it wasn’t so crazy to think of Emma bolting. It only took a little bit of embarrassment to have her avoid him for a week and a half. If he pushed her too far, made her face too much – or worse, she simply didn’t feel the same way – she’d surely find a new shitty ass apartment in six hours flat.

And he couldn’t have that happening. It’s not as if he were alone in the world or anything. Will and Robin, they were there for him. He had friends and clients. He had a sparkling, captivating personality and was perfectly capable of making new friends.

But he didn’t _want_ to. There was something so easy about his friendship with Emma, something so _right_ and he _wasn’t_ going to lose her.

He also wasn’t going to turn into a messy ball of bloody nerves around her either. Which was easier said than done, considering how every minute with her he was worried about _overstepping his boundaries_ and _scaring her off_ and _being too obvious with his yearning looks and doey eyes_ (direct quote by Regina via Robin at the most recent football match).

(To which Will responded _everybody knows; nobody cares_ and Killian almost decked him. Again.)

He’d made it clear to Will _before the bloody football game_ that he would never be speaking to Emma in that manner ever again. Further, that he owed Emma a _glowing_ apology, not to be delivered one second before it was truly genuine.

Of course, the sodding git maintained he “hadn’t told a lie” – insisted that Killian just wanted in her pants. He’d explained that it wasn’t _just_ anything.

And he must have been particularly persuasive with his attempt at a menacing expression, because Will shut his gob for the first time in _years_ and had simply watched the game.

Small miracles, right?

Hopefully he hadn’t surpassed his yearly allotment of miracles, because he was about to ask for another.

He’d _tried_ to find actors for his pirate-y excursions. He’d put out fliers and he’d contacted talent agencies and he’d even done a few interviews in the week since Emma and Ruby had so kindly made his first themed sail a success. But no one was quite right – no one had that magnetic spirit, that adorable dedication, that charm-your-pants-off smile that Emma did (and Ruby, too, if he were being honest).

So he was going to ~~ask~~ beg that Emma and Ruby help him out a little bit longer.

Emma was working from home (most likely), the keys on her keyboard being tapped at furiously (with various expletives thrown in from time to time). So he was going to need to butter her up. Or something.

Here went nothing.

_Knock-knock, knock-knock-knock-knock, knock, knock-knock-knock-knock_

“What do you want, Jones?” Emma shouted, clearly exasperated or frustrated or maybe just plain _exhausted_ (he’d heard her moving around at 3:45am when he’d gotten up to use the restroom).

“What makes you think I _want_ something?” Killian called through the wall.

“Because that’s the _I need a favor_ knock? Ugh. My throat is sore and I hate shouting. I’m coming over.” Emma’s laptop lid slammed shut and her footsteps all but stomped out of her bedroom and down the hall before she unceremoniously burst through his front door, swept across his living room and into his bedroom before she threw herself down on his bed.

“I’m so fucking tired,” she complained, throwing her arm over her eyes and curling into his spare pillow. I’m pretty sure it’s been 36 hours since I’ve slept. So whatever you want had better not require much energy.”

Fuck. It was clearly not to the time to ask for something she’d already mostly said no to.

“Emma. You know that’s not good for your health. What the bloody hell are you thinking?!”

“I’m thinking that this asshole has a $65,000 bounty on his head and that could pay for quite a lot if I could just fucking _find him_. Ugh. Graham would have helped me. But he’s not here. And his old captain is too busy to offer any police assistance. He was really nice, though! Nicer than I’d expected him to be. I guess Graham had talked pretty highly of me. Because he was a good guy. And now he’s gone. _Fuck_ I need a nap.” She was rambling and his heart was melting because she looked straight up miserable. Plus, there was the slight concern that she wasn’t even going to remember this interaction – yeah, she seemed _that_ tired.

“What if _I_ helped?” Killian offered, tugging her hand off her face so she would look at him. “I know I’m no professional. But I could do _something_ right? At least some research while you nap? You’re going to run yourself ragged, love. If you don’t get some sleep, the bastard could walk through your living room handcuffed and you still wouldn’t be able to bring him in.”

She finally opened her eyes just to glare at him, but he could tell there was little heat behind the glare. Dare he say he even saw a hint of appreciation?

“I really do need some sleep.”

“Well fancy that; you’re already in a bed. Just close your eyes. Is there anything I can do while you sleep?”

“Can you just go check the trace I have running on my computer? Wake me if it comes up with anything. It’s been running for a while and I’m not exactly hopeful, but whatever. I have to try.” Emma’s eyes fluttered closed and she curled on her side. Killian leaned down to kiss her hair before shuffling out of his room and into Emma’s apartment.

Her room was a goddamn mess, but considering _she_ was kind of a mess at the moment, he wasn’t exactly surprised. What _did_ surprise him was the fact that Emma failed to mention her laptop was password protected before she passed out in his bed. _Fuck_.

(It made sense. She had some sensitive information in there. But still. She could have _told him_.)

So he tried a few “obvious” possibilities. EmmaSwan1023. password. Killianismysuperhero. All to no avail.

Just when he started shuffling through some papers in her desk looking for a _hey Killian here’s all my passwords_ cheat sheet, there was a loud knock at her door.

-

Ugh. The walls really were way too fucking thin. Because seriously, she could hear the knock on her door through, like, four walls. But whatever, Killian would handle it, right? It was probably just a delivery. Or Mary Margaret. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Whatever it was, Killian was a big boy. He could handle it.

And then she heard the strangest thing: another accented voice that sounded suspiciously like a douchebag she’d punched just a week ago. At _her_ apartment. Was Killian throwing a party while she slept? Because… how rude.

“Will? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

So, not a planned visit then. Even weirder.

“Did you and Emma switch flats or something? Or have you taken that next step and just moved in together?”

“Will. What have we discussed? Do not speak about her like that or I’ll split more than your fucking lip.”

“Mate, calm down. I’m here to mend fences with the lady of the house. Is she home? I even brought her an olive branch. See?”

Maybe she was dreaming. Because this turn of events was fucking _weird_.

“She’s asleep in my place. And before you say anything salacious, she’s exhausted from work and just passed out there. And I’m over here helping her on her computer. Well, trying to. You can go knock, but she’s heavily sleep deprived and I’m not promising she won’t sock you at first sight.” Killian was laughing but even through the walls Emma could tell his warning was sincere.

Welp, guess she was going to need to get out of bed. _So much for that nap_.

_Knock, knock_.

She grumbled and plodded over to Killian’s front door, surprised to see Will’s face even though she _knew_ he was coming.

“Take this before it gets cold,” Will said, thrusting a to-go cup into her hands.

She only hesitated for a second – he _probably_ wasn’t trying to poison her – and her heart swelled when she tasted her very favorite Granny’s delight: hot cocoa with cinnamon.

“How – how did you know?” she asked, licking the excess foam off her lips.

“I’ve got me ways. Now, I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry. I know I can be an insufferable arse. In my defense, most people find it endearing. But I crossed a line and it’s not OK. You’re my best friend’s best friend and – well, that means you’re my friend, too. Even if I don’t quite understand your… relationship. Or lack thereof.”

“Who the hell do you spend time with who finds your douchebaggery to be cute? Because that doesn’t sound very smart.”

“I never said I was looking for _smart_.” He quirked an eyebrow and she knew exactly what he was insinuating about his companions, but Emma took another sip of the steaming beverage and made herself just _let it go_. “But I am sorry,” he continued. “Mostly. A small part of me stands by what I said, because it’s pretty clear that man is bonkers for you. But since he can probably _hear_ me in this godforsaken tissue-paper-for-walls nightmare and I _do_ value what’s left of this pretty mug, I’ll leave it at that.” Will turned to leave, his expression neutral, before quickly calling back, “oh, and give him your computer password. He’s not Sherlock, you know.”

_Shit_. Her password. Her exhausted brain _knew_ there was something she was forgetting as she drifted to sleep, but honestly her neurons had probably stopped firing about two hours _before_ that. So. It wasn’t exactly her fault.

And Will was right. He _wasn’t_ Sherlock. And there was no way even Sherlock himself would guess her password – _wolfpuppy314_ wasn’t exactly predictable, after all. And he’d never think to ask Ruby, who’d actually suggested it when she was stuck on _EmmaSwan1023_.

“Cracked it yet?” she questioned as she entered her apartment only to find him frantically typing away, his brows knit in absolute confusion.

“Is it going to lock me out after a certain number of tries? I must be on a hundred by now.” Killian chuckled and Emma approached, swinging the computer around in her direction and typing it in quickly, thankful for her idiot neighbor for trying to desperately to be helpful to her – when she knew she didn’t quite deserve it.

“Are you going to share with the class?” Killian asked as he took the laptop back, browsing through her open programs to check on the tracking.

“Never! I don’t want you coming over here while I’m gone and looking up porn or something. That’s the last thing I need the feds to find on my computer if I wind up missing.” Yeah, ok, Emma had seen too much Dateline in her lifetime, leading to an unnatural fear of her untimely death leading to a thorough search of her browsing history. Silly? _Yes_.

“I could be looking it up right now. That or ‘how to build a bomb.’ You wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“Ah, of course not. I’ve got quite the bombshell right here, after all,” he said, winking at her. God, how fucking cheesy. And still, just so _cute_.

Emma was a sleep-deprived _mess_ , so she probably shouldn’t be making decisions or acting on any instincts or desires, but she couldn’t help but want do the unthinkable – to flirt back. To kiss the living daylights out of him even. Because he was so kind and so caring. And funny. And insanely hot. He was _everything_ and Emma _knew_ that Will was right. Not about being a piece of ass to Killian – hell _no_. But she was _something_ to him and the more she tried not to think about it the more she _wanted_ to be something. It was probably stupid.

Ok, it was definitely stupid. But stupid wasn’t always _bad_ , right?

She settled for rolling her eyes at him – grinning all the while – and opting for a more serious line of conversation.

“Thank you, by the way. For standing up for me. And for encouraging… whatever _that_ was.” She waved her hand toward his apartment, referencing the recent exchange between her and Will.

“Oh, that was all Will, love. I didn’t make him do anything,” he insisted, but the way his eyes suddenly were trained on the floor she knew it was a goddamn lie (remind her to play poker with him sometime if he was _that_ bad of a liar).

“Well yeah, you didn’t put a gun to his head. But you encouraged it, I’m sure. And I appreciate that. He’s not – well, he’s not the _worst_.” She took another sip of her hot chocolate, a stray bit of whipped cream sticking to the tip of her nose. In attempts to be discreet, she turned away from him and rubbed her nose against her elbow, trying to clean herself up a bit, but he noticed it _of course_ and melted into a fit of laughter.

“I didn’t even tell him what you drink. In case you were wondering. He must have taken the initiative to ask Granny herself. Pretty nice if I do say so myself.”

“I think it’s _you_ he did it for.”

“Aye, that’s true. But he knows you’re important to me. And he _does_ like you. He’s just not used to being around women who don’t take his shit. It makes him react… negatively.” He scrunched his face, clearly aware of the not-quite-strong-enough nature of his word choice. But it was OK. He’d made it clear to his very best _mate_ that Emma was to be respected. He respected her and valued her and maybe could even love her one day and instead of wanting to run far, far away, she kind of wanted to _kiss_ him for it.

But her first instinct had been correct. Sleep deprived decisions were not sound decisions. She wasn’t about to pounce on him and then regret it after a good nap. This was _not_ a dream and would have real consequences and holy _shit_ what if he didn’t want her? The unfortunate masturbatory incident had been bad enough, but actually trying to kiss him and have him say _no?_ Huh uh. Not happening. She would sleep on it.

“Ok, Jones. Here, have some delicious beverage. It would be a shame to waste it and I’m basically a walking zombie. So I’m going to go nap. For real this time. And unless Chris Evans comes to the door, please tell any visitors to kindly fuck off. Kay?”

“Ahhhh is he on your celebrity cheat list, Swan?”

“My celebrity cheat list is the cast of The Avengers. In its entirety. In case you were wondering.” She winked and spun around and swayed her hips a little more than entirely necessary and yeah she probably shouldn’t have and she might have offended him or maybe turned him on or god knows what else but she was tired and at least she hadn’t said _he_ was all she wanted or something desperate like that.

Success! (Right?)

-

Killian was having a weird day. Emma was being more open than usual. Open and affectionate and almost _flirty_ even.

(And he certainly didn’t hate it.)

She’d finally laid down for a nap about two hours before and her tracking program was getting _nowhere_ , so Killian took a look around her desk – actively avoiding the urge to watch her smile in her sleep, all curled against her spare pillow like she was clinging to a person (like he wished she’d cling to _him_ ). He found the manila folder full of information on the skip she was tracking and he dragged it out to her living room, setting up a little makeshift desk using a bar stool and her couch. He switched on the telly, if only for a bit of background noise, but he made sure to keep in on low in case the blasted commercials decided to get insanely loud and wake his sleeping beauty.

Nope, his friend. She was his _friend._

Friend. Friend. Friend.

Isn’t it funny how you say a word often enough, even in your head, and it just starts to sound like noise?

Emma slept soundly for a full four hours before emerging from her room adorably rumpled, creases in her t-shirt and on her cheek and yesterday’s mascara flaking a bit off the corners of her eyes.

But she looked more alive, awake, aware – and suspiciously _happy_.

“You’re still here.” He probably should have been offended that she was so shocked, but he knew what long naps could be like. You woke up feeling like two decades had passed rather than an afternoon.

“Sure, Swan. I’m just chasing down some leads here. I think I found a twitter account for this dude’s ex girlfriend and she’s been tweeting suspiciously hopeful love-quote platitudes. Almost like a former flame has reignited. Almost like she could be helping him to _hide_. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a damn genius.”

-

The nap had been amazing. She hadn’t dreamed at all (that she could remember), hadn’t moved, hadn’t been disturbed by a single noise or interruption. And sure, she still needed another 10 hours, probably, just to break even on lost sleep. But Killian had basically _found_ the guy who’d kept her awake for days. In a matter of four hours (had she really only slept _four hours_ ) he’d found the closest thing to a trail for this guy that she was gonna get. So she suited up and headed out (Killian wishing her luck as she went).

And a mere hour and a half later, she was hauling the guy in.

All based on a geotagged tweet. (Seeeeee, social media could really fuck you.)

She dropped the jerk off at the precinct and floated back to her apartment on Cloud 65,000. What a fucking day.

She half expected Killian to be watching her TiVo when she got home, so the sight of her empty living room _stung_. Even though it had no right to. But she was excited and happy and _not broke for once_ and yeah that thing she wanted was probably still stupid. It could still blow up. Bad. But she wanted it and tomorrows were never guaranteed and fuck it. It was happening.

She sprinted to the wall separating their apartments (praying he was on the other side) and just started banging. No rhythm. No pattern. No secret code. Just pure, unadulterated _joy_.

“Jesus, Swan, don’t break our bloody walls!” He shouted, knocking back just as excitedly but with _much_ less pressure. “We want our security deposits back, don’t we?”

“Get!” _knock, knock, knock, knock, knock_ “Over!” _knock, knock-knock-knock, knock_ “Here!” _knock-knock, knock-knock, knock-knock-knock-knock_

“I’m guessing you caught him, love?” He shouted from the hallway, his footsteps inching closer to her door in rapid succession.

“Yes!” she exclaimed as he threw her door open and she launched herself at him, jumping up and wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his hands went under her ass to support the surprising weight of her.

“Glad to hear it, Swan,” he whispered into her hair, tangled and a little sweaty from the running, the adrenaline, the excitement, and, of course, the wind.

“I owe you big time. You really saved my ass. A few times today, really.” She pushed back off him and he released her, sauntering to her fridge to grab the last two bottles of beer as she reached over to swing her door closed.

“I think a cheers is in order.” The bottle opener was on a shelf too high for Emma to reach, so she pointed and Killian got the hint, reaching on his toes to snag the implement, pop the bottles open, and clink them lightly together.

“To Emma Swan, the biggest badass of them all.”

“And to Killian Jones, the biggest twitter stalker of them all.”

“Hey now! It did us well, don’t you think?” He looked offended for a moment, but at the sight of her wide smile he seemed to melt right in front of her eyes and she realized she’d never been more sure of something she wanted before this very moment.

(Except maybe anytime she’s craved pizza. Or that time she found out there was a bail bonds opening. Or when she saw the red leather jacket in the window of that store the day she’d finally stopped living in her crappy yellow Bug.)

Killian asked for some details on the capture and she complied, but the story wasn’t nearly as interesting as he’d hoped, so they ended up talking about how they should both quit their jobs and just write outlandish books that would be made into poorly acted movies.

“Excellent plan, Killian, but what happens when the character you’re so _clearly_ basing on yourself gets cast and is played by Sebastian Stan or something.”

“Oh, _hell no_. He has a weird face. And he’s crazy. I can’t abide that.”

They finished their beers in relative quiet, Emma’s exhaustion nipping at the edges of her consciousness just a bit. But she knew it wasn’t time for sleep. Not _yet_.

“Hey, Killian?”

“Yes?” He already looked suspicious, nervous, full of _dread_ , and she hadn’t even started yet. Great, this was going to go well.

(What must her face have looked like for him to be so unsure already? _God, Emma, hide your fucking weirdness, please_.)

“Well I’ve been thinking. About our friendship.” She slammed the rest of her beer and tossed the bottle in the garbage, the glass clinking against something else hard in the bin. “It’s kind of awesome. We’re awesome. Don’t you think?”

His eyes were wide and even _more_ suspicious than before, but she kept on going like a freight train through a carton of milk.

“Well, you make me very, very happy. As you probably realize. And – I mean, we’re so similar. And yet so different! And it’s just definitely a good thing.”

Shit, shit, _shit_. She really wasn’t so solid with the _words_. In all her awkwardness she started staring around the room, focusing on anything that wasn’t his adorable perplexed expression, and finally her thoughts became a whole lot more clear as she stared at the empty Granny’s cup sitting on her counter.

“You know how hot chocolate is delicious, but it’s better with cinnamon? Maybe our friendship could use that kind of… _spice_.”

-

Spice.

What the hell did she mean, _spice_? A girl-group karaoke outing? A Mexican buffet?

“Are you suggesting we take a cooking class, Emma?”

She rolled her eyes and wrung her hands together and appeared to contemplate something for a split _second_ before she stepped toward him, pushing him backward until the back of his knees met the couch. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she pushed him down and climbed on his lap, her knees positioned on the outsides of his hips, and holy _hell_ had he fallen asleep while she was away and never woken up? Because _this_ was not what he expected.

She snaked her arms around his neck and let her nose brush against his, her shining green us boring into his from an inch or so above him. “No, that’s _not_ the kind of spice I was referring to.”

This couldn’t be real. No, Emma wouldn’t be suggesting…. _that_.

Then again, she’d kissed him. She’d gotten off to the sounds of _him_ getting off. There were certainly weirder things in the world than Emma _wanting_ him.

But at what cost?

“Swan, what are you doing?” he asked, his voice hardly a whisper as he dragged his nose down the column of her throat, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and body wash, her _skin_ , even the faintest hint of cocoa and cinnamon.

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” She smiled, light and free and _genuine_ , before brushing her lips against his with so little pressure he thought he might have imagined it. But then her hand caressed his neck, his ear lobe, his cheek, and she pressed her hips even further into his.

They locked eyes for just a moment before she dove in, kissing him like one of them might be dying. Her lips brushed over his, closing around his top lip before she lightly nipped with her teeth, tugging until his mouth opened on a gasp. She stroked her tongue against his and suddenly every nerve in him was on _fire_ and he was kissing her back with all of his soul.

His hands stroked her back and tugged on her hair as her hands slid up under his shirt, tickling at his abs as he felt her crack a smile. He pulled her closer, her breasts pushing against his chest and her hips rocking into his and he couldn’t help but think he could die a happy man if an asteroid smashed through the flat ending him in a fiery oblivion.

But the _second_ her hand started tugging up on his shirt with enough pressure that he knew her intention to divest him of it _entirely_ , he was sadly yanked back to reality.

“Emma, wait,” he pleaded against her lips, refusing to actually pull away in fear of hurting her, making her think he’d ever _reject_ her.

She kissed him once more, her tongue slowly swiping across his bottom lip before she pulled back, caressing his stubble with a look in her eyes he’d never seen before – almost _goofy_ happiness.

“Wait for what exactly?” She didn’t appear to be tired or drunk or grieving or any other of a multitude of states of mind that could lead to her craving his affections for any reason other than liking him, _wanting_ him. But he _had to be sure._

“Is something wrong?”

“You’re not kissing me anymore, and that’s not exactly right, I’d say,” she responded with a chuckle, his worry apparently a source of amusement for her.

“Are you sure this is what you want? I mean _is_ this what you want? Just some cinnamon on the hot chocolate, like _friends with benefits_? Because I’m not sure I can agree to that, love. I’m a selfish man. I don’t know that I can take part of you without wanting it all…” he trailed off, worried he was about to scare her away with his talk of actual feelings and a possible future and all the things that seemed to scare the pants very much _on_ her.

“Killian. You’re my favorite person in this whole world. And I’m a scaredy cat. I get that. I’m not ready to, I don’t know, _go steady_ with you and wear your letterman’s jacket or whatever. But I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you when I’m happy or when I’m sad. When I’m awake or when I’m tired. When I’m watching TV with you or when we’re playing pirates for a bunch of spoiled lawyers. And especially when you’re treating me like a goddamn _princess_ , taking care of me and helping me apprehend bad guys, and – yeah. I _want_ this.”

Enthusiasm seemed to be _bursting_ out of her, like she was finally letting go of something that had been bubbling inside for god knows how long, holding her back and weighing her down. And now she was light as a feather, rubbing her cheek against his, kissing his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not going to avoid me for a week if I keep kissing you, right?” Verbal confirmation was definitely necessary from here on out with this woman. Because he couldn’t go another week or more of being shut out of her life. He simply wouldn’t survive it.

“Nope. I promise. And I promise it won’t be a one-time thing. Or a benefits-only thing. It’s a _real_ thing.” He cut her off with a brief kiss, just happy to hear that she wasn’t planning to make him some dirty little secret or biggest mistake or one of those emo song tropes he simply couldn’t _stand_.

“I want _something_ with you, Killian. More than neighbors and more than friends. But… slow. Ok?”

“This doesn’t feel very _slow_ , Emma,” he practically grunted, pushing his hips into hers for effect.

“I’m just asking for a kiss. Well, a lot of them. But I’m not going to just fuck you and run. I promise.”

And despite the fear that had been plaguing his poor heart for _months_ , he actually believed her.

-

She couldn’t believe it was finally happening. Killian’s tongue was in her mouth and his hands were up her shirt, just softly caressing the skin of her lower back and she was on fire and feeling better than she had in months, _years_ even, because her best friend was probably the greatest guy on the planet and he was touching her like she was fragile and precious and beautiful and it was all too fucking much.

She’d ripped his shirt off him as soon as he’d shut up and started kissing her again and her hands were wandering _everywhere_ , her lips moving against his intermittently and traveling along his neck and throat and chest when she was so overwhelmed she couldn’t quite _breathe_. He was _so_ good at this.

And she didn’t want it because she was sad and needed comfort. Or because she was happy, even, though $65,000 will do that to you. No. She was finally letting herself just _feel_ and it was more incredible than she could have realized before she just fucking did it.

Emma closed her lips around Killian’s earlobe, lightly flicking it with her tongue before tugging on it with her teeth and he let out a grunt she was all too proud to have caused as he hoisted her up and flopped her onto her back, climbing over her and pressing her into the couch cushions with care but _passion_ and she moaned embarrassingly loudly as he fondled one of her breasts through her shirt, simultaneously sucking a mark into the crook of her neck.

(Welp, her neighbors on the _other side_ , the quiet, respectful ones, were certainly getting an earful if they were home. And not a single bit of her cared in the least.)

Killian squeezed her breast again and then yanked down the neck of her shirt, kissing as low as the v-neck would allow as his fingers danced down her torso and up her shirt. He flicked at her nipples and she cried out, pushing her hips into his with admittedly more force than she should have if she truly wanted them to keep their pants on during this little… adventure.

But he smiled against her lips and she smiled back and their teeth clacked together through the kiss, but it was probably the most perfect thing she’d ever experienced.

Well up until his fingers stopped tweaking at her breasts and instead caressed along the soft skin of her waist – lower, lower, until they were slipping into her pants. Now _that_ was perfection. And as he started to lightly rub two fingers against her throbbing center, even through the cotton of her underwear it was so far superior to her own ministrations that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to get herself off again without _massive_ disappointment.

She clutched him even tighter, whispering little _oh god_ s and _holy shit_ s as he nudged her garments aside, finally, _finally_ making contact with her wet, heated flesh.

God, she was never going to recover from this.

-

Nothing had ever in his life felt this good.

Well, that might have been an exaggeration – after all, they were hardly even _doing_ anything at this point – but his heart was racing and his cock was throbbing and he needed some part of himself inside her or he might just explode.

So he nudged her panties aside and circled her swollen clit and as soon as she broke their kiss and started mumbling incoherent praise, he pushed two fingers inside her, stroking at her with every ounce of reverence he was capable.

She squirmed against him, but it was the _good_ kind of squirming, the kind where he knew he was making her feel good – hot and wanted and floating and even though her wandering hands still hadn’t made it to his very, very hard erection, he felt it, too. The heat, the lust, the possibility of _love_ hidden somewhere beneath her ribs.

She gasped again and he caught her lips with his, kissing slowly, deeply to the rhythm of his pumping fingers.

“I thought we agreed on just kissing,” Emma gasped, probably _trying_ to complain, but it wasn’t so convincing when it came out on a _moan_. But Killian was a gentleman who stuck to his word. If kissing was their limit, well he’d stick to it.

“Well then allow me to _kiss_ ,” he responded, removing his fingers from between her legs and raining kisses down her neck, her shoulders, her wrists, until finally settling himself at her belly. He looked back up at her face, taking in her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, the look of pure bliss in her eyes as he tugged up on her t-shirt to place wet kisses along her middle, swirling his tongue around her belly button and letting his hands drift to caress the perfect curves of her hips.

He kept nipping at her belly, her hipbones as his hands made contact with her pants, tugging lightly while looking into her eyes to beg her permission.

And she didn’t even hesitate, reaching down to yank her pants off so fast she nearly kneed him in his balls. She drew in a sharp breath and apologized, stroking at his hips as he pulled the cloth off her legs and tossed it somewhere near her TV. “No harm, love,” he whispered, blowing cool air over her now exposed core.

And his Swan, she was an impatient one. “Then get on with it. _Please_.”

He smiled at her and she rolled her eyes and the moan that escaped her lips as his closed around her clit was more beautiful than any song he’d ever heard, the squeeze of her hands at his shoulders better than any touch he’d heretofore received.

(Yeah, he thought words like _heretofore_ while he was eating out the woman he was now fully positive he loved – totally normal, OK?)

He swirled his tongue around her and she gripped at his hair and shattered within _seconds_ (that had to be some sort of record), moaning and gasping incoherently as he eased his movements to bring her down gently.

She hadn’t even caught her breath when she pushed him off of her and he panicked – had she already changed her mind? – but she was down on her knees in an instant, pushing his knees apart and trailing little kisses up the insides of his thighs. Even through his jeans it felt like _heaven_ , but he knew – unfortunately – it wasn’t what he wanted.

Not right _now_ anyway.

“God, Emma, that feels incredible, but you have to stop.”

Her head snapped up. “Stop? Why?”

“Why don’t we go to bed, love? You’re exhausted. And I think I want to keep you _wanting_ anyway. To keep you interested, of course.” Her hair was even more a mess now that he’d been running his hands through it (and it had been smashed against the pillows of her couch), but it was so smooth, almost glowing in the low light of her living room.

(God, he’d never get enough.)

“Do you usually say no to women practically begging to suck your dick?” Emma seemed somewhat annoyed but also weirdly flattered, so he tucked a lock of hair behind her hear and grabbed for her hand to get her to stand.

“I’m not saying _no_ to you, Emma. I don’t actually think I’m _capable_ of that. I’m just saying _not yet_. I want to take you on a proper date. When you’re ready, anyway. And then, like happens on any normal date, we can fool around in the back seat of the car. Or in an alleyway. Or against a tree. I’m not picky.” He smirked and tugged her toward her room, pulling her shirt off and unclasping her bra as soon as they entered.

“Oh, no more than kissing but you _do_ get to see me naked?”

“It goes both ways,” he responded, shucking off his pants and boxers.

It should have been weird – that they were lying down together fully bare with absolutely no intention of fucking until the sun came up (even though he admittedly _liked_ that idea).

But it _wasn’t_. It was the simplest, purest thing he could imagine, just wanting to curl against her, hold her as she slept, with absolutely nothing in between them.

Sure, she might panic and bolt in the morning. She might be angry at him (or herself).

But maybe, just _maybe_ , she’d smile and whisper _good morning, Killian_ and stop his heart in the very best way.


	11. Too Much Information Alert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a good amount of humor, hopefully! I'm having so much fun writing their growing relationship, and I hope that's coming across in the chapters :)

Emma was having the best dream. And not the _floating above a city before landing in a pile of money_ kind. No, it was one that felt real and warm and happy and something dangerously resembling _home_. She was surrounded by the heat of a muscular, scruffy body, the man’s calloused hands running soothing circles at the skin of her hips. He smelled like salt and some cologne she couldn’t actually _name_ but knew quite well, as it was worn by her very best friend (and favorite person) in the whole world.

If only Emma could wake the fuck up and stop being such a stubborn dumbass, this wonderful perfect dream where her best friend was far _more_ could be real.

She let out a little sigh as his thumb grazed across her belly button and quickly catalogued a few very non-fantasy factors in this little dream of hers. First of all, the back of her knees were sweating like she’d done that psycho _hot yoga_ shit Ruby made her try a few months back. Second of all, her neck was _sore_. And finally – the most jarring part – she twitched her nose and wiggled her toes and realized she wasn’t sleeping at all.

Killian was real and _there_ (and just as naked as Emma). The previous night flooded back, how she’d made like a cartoon lion and grown some fucking courage and kissed the living daylights out of him, how his eyes had lit up with pure joy, how he maintained his months-ago confession that he wanted to fuck her while also admitting he wanted a lot more.

Just like she wanted a lot more.

( _More_. What a ridiculous concept for the girl who was used to having _nothing_.)

Killian’s breath was hot on the back of her neck, each of his slightly snore-y exhales tickling through her tangled mess of blonde hair that was probably annoying him in his sleep. She knew she should shift slightly – the twist of her neck was pretty painful and it was about time for them to join the living world and all – but Emma didn’t want to break the spell. Sure he’d agreed to… whatever this was. But what if he’d dreamed something less serene and woke up only to change his mind? He _knew_ her, after all, knew how difficult she could be and how flighty and fickle and _scared_. She wouldn’t even blame him for thinking she was too much trouble.

So she kept still and just relished in the feel of his rough hands on her, praying to all the gods (and Tom Cruise) that it wouldn’t be the last time.

-

He’d been awake for too many hours. He’d had to use the facilities for too many hours. He’d been on the verge of sneezing into Emma’s neck for too many hours, her hair tickling at his nose with every inhale.

But he didn’t dare move and wake her up, risk her changing her mind.

Then again, she would wake eventually. And if she changed her mind, then, of course, he would respect that. (He was a gentleman… otherwise known as a _decent human being_.) But if that’s what was going to happen anyway, could he really be blamed for savoring the last moments of this dream-come-true?

He let his fingers roam over her hip, her belly, gently caressing the perfect pale skin even Snow White herself would be jealous of. He could see the sun was rising through the tiny crack in her bedroom door, the light streaming in her living room window in an orange hue that seemed to match the warmth emanating from his damn soul.

(And their body heat – he’d forgotten how uncomfortably warm it could be, sleeping tangled up with another person, skin-to-skin, without the benefit of air conditioning or a fan.)

(He wouldn’t trade it, though.)

(But if he had the privilege of repeating this experience, he might at least switch on the ceiling fan before flopping into bed.)

Somewhere around when the glow of sunrise turned from orange to yellow, Emma’s breathing became less regular, even somewhat gaspy at times. She was _awake_ and he knew it, but something was keeping her eyes – and probably her heart – closed.

He allowed his fingers just a bit more pressure at her middle, his thumb moving lower so his thumb was on her hip bone, and she shifted almost imperceptibly closer to him. She clearly wasn’t _opposed_ to his ministrations. So he kept caressing her, kept allowing her to fake sleep, to hopefully just enjoy their quiet moment before actual reality threatened to tint the world a little darker.

-

He probably knew she was awake, but actually _acknowledging_ it might lead to talking and talking might lead somewhere decidedly less fun, so Emma just arched herself into his touch and bit back a moan as his fingers _finally_ crept between her legs. The way her thighs were resting on top one another, Killian couldn’t access where she _really_ wanted – not without her adjusting her position – but the heat was still building as he teased as close as he could manage.

She could feel him getting hard against her ass and she rocked back into him just a little, but he shifted _back_ , avoiding contact with her as much as possible. Frustrated at the lack of contact she let out a little groan – _welp, he knew she was awake now_ – and shifted one of her legs backward so her now very wet center was exposed to the warm air of the bedroom. He chucked at her impatience and, fuck it, she reached her hand back to brush along his hip as he stroked her inner thigh, her mound, basically _anywhere_ but where he damn well knew she wanted him to go.

So she went there _first_ , her fingernails scratching through his happy trail until she closed them around his hard flesh, drawing a _grunt_ from him she longed to hear again (and again and again) until –

_Knock, knock, knock_.

Her eyes shot open and Killian’s hand squeezed her hip and before she could so much as whisper an expletive – or _string_ of them – her front door was squeaking open and footsteps belonging to more than one human being were pitter-pattering across her kitchen floor.

“Emma! Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Ruby called.

“We just wanted to congratulate you on your big – _OH_!” Mary Margaret was the one to peek into Emma’s bedroom, probably catching a glance of quite a lot of skin before Emma ripped the sheet from the bottom of the bed and wrapped herself in it, sprinting out of her room and slamming the door behind her.

Ruby and Mary Margaret stared at her with wide eyes and similar _what the fuck_ expressions and Emma rearranged her sheet to make sure all of her wiggly bits were properly covered before trying to come up with any kind of explanation that wasn’t a lie but also wasn’t mentally and emotionally scarring to her friends who were practically her _sisters_.

“It’s not what you think,” is all Emma could squeak out, her cheeks probably glowing shades of purple _and_ green (yes, being caught in this kind of sticky situation could make you feel a little bit _sick_ ).

Mary Margaret looked at her with warmth and a little pity, but Ruby – she was never one to sugar coat.

“Well it looks like you’re banging your neighbor.”

“I’m not _banging_ anyone!” Emma whisper-screamed, trying to keep her cool but knowing damn well her stupid thin walls meant Killian would hear every word of what was being said.

“What, you don’t like that word? I’m great with sex vocab. Would you rather _making love_? How about _bumping uglies_? Though I’ve seen you and I’ve seen him and there’s _nothing_ ugly about that.” Ruby chuckled, clearly relishing in Emma’s discomfort. “Screwing? Doing the horizontal tango? Maybe you’d prefer the very simple _fucking_?”

Emma’s longtime wish that she had Harry Potter-style powers came bubbling to the surface, wishing more than anything she could apparate the fuck out of there. Or, you know, a sinkhole would open up and swallow her (no, sinkholes weren’t funny, but neither was this _mess_ ).

But Mary Margaret, ever the momma bear, came to Emma’s rescue.

“Ruby! Could you be any more crass? Emma is clearly not in the mood for your taunting, so maybe save it for a time when humor is slightly more _appropriate_?”

Ruby responded with a _my lips are zipped_ pantomime, but nothing was wiping that smirk off her stupid face.

“So… is that Killian in there?” Mary Margaret asked with as little volume as possible.

Ugh. Truth time? “Yes, but I’m not – we’re not… any of those things Ruby said.”

Mary Margaret gave Emma an encouraging smile, but her eyes remained confused. “Um, Emma, you’re both naked and in your bed. Forgive us for being… curious?”

“Um, OK. So… I slept with him last night, but the kind of sleeping with someone where you actually sleep. We – well, I kissed him and he might have also done some other things that involve a lack of clothing,” Emma paused, rolling her eyes at her embarrassment and her clumsy explanation. “But we didn’t have sex. But as you know, the walls in here are thinner than paper so I’d prefer to not have this conversation right now.”

Ruby finally spoke up again, this time kindly changing the subject. “Well, is it true? Did you nab that guy with the huge bounty?”

“Yes!” Emma squealed, unable to contain her delight (it had been the highlight of her day yesterday, you know, until her handsome neighbor stuck his face between her thighs. “I can’t take all the credit, though. Killian helped me track down the guy’s ex. But, yeah, I got him. Yay, me!”

Emma smiled, but hugged her sheet closer to herself, once again worried that she might lose her only covering in all of her enthusiasm.

Mary Margaret and Ruby both smiled at her, offering her high fives.

“I’d hug you. You know, if you had any clothes on,” Ruby said with a wink, adding something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like _for more than just the bounty_.

“We’ll talk later?” Mary Margaret asked, raising her phone to indicate that Emma should call or text later and she just nodded, the girls backing out of her apartment with matching proud smiles.

_Shit._ This kind of thing _would_ happen to her when she was _so close_ to feeling Killian’s lips on her again. Now she was so embarrassed she could really only think of crawling in a hole and dying – when just five minutes earlier she was dangerously close to turning around and crawling down his body and having herself a nice little morning _treat_.

Ugh. What fucking luck.

Emma took a few deep breaths before slowly opening her bedroom door, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched and eyes trained on the floor.

“Lovely morning for visitors, wouldn’t you say?” Killian asked, far too chipper to be fair. But his lightness always brightened her mood. She immediately relaxed and let her gaze fall on his stupid perfect face and suddenly the world wasn’t so shitty anymore.

“Yeah, just the best!” she responded with horrifically fake enthusiasm as she flopped herself back down onto the bed, spreading the sheet back out so it covered all their important parts.

(Not that she wanted to cover them, but now that the mood was all but killed, it just felt like the appropriate thing to do.)

Emma’s phone chimed from her nightstand and Killian motioned for her to get it, probably knowing just as well as he did that it was going to be one of her friends requesting more information.

**Ruby** : Sorry we ruined your shot at morning sex. Promise we’re not coming back, so you guys are all clear for some afternoon delight if the mood strikes you.

She read the message, but didn’t dignify it with a response, hoping the read receipt Ruby would see on her phone was sufficient enough for her to feel Emma’s scowl through the phone.

But Ruby’s entire lack of decorum reminded Emma of Mary Margaret’s attempts at tact, and she decided the woman was deserving of a thank you for not being so damn obnoxious.

**Emma** : Thanks for not saying I told you so

Those three little dots appeared immediately and Emma smiled at the response, so genuine and sweet and so very Mary Margaret.

**Mary Margaret** : I would NEVER. But now that you mention it… I did ;)

-

Whatever was happening in that phone of hers couldn’t have been _too_ bad because Emma was smiling when she put the phone back down on the nightstand, plugging it in at the last moment before turning back to him. She rearranged the sheet to make sure her lovely breasts weren’t spilling out and as disappointed as that made Killian, all he really wanted was for her to be comfortable.

And he was kind of winning the _make Emma comfortable_ lottery if she hadn’t kicked him through his own bedroom wall yet.

(And, less hyperbolically, if she was comfortable enough that she didn’t feel the need for actual _clothes_ , well he couldn’t be faring too terribly.)

Killian wasn’t sure where to start with the whole _about last night_ conversation, so he settled on avoidance for the time being. “How are Ruby and Mary Margaret?”

“Nosy.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look nearly as embarrassed or horrified as when they first arrived.

“Come to wish you congratulations on nailing the scumbag yesterday?”

Emma’s eyes popped for a moment but then she seemed to process something in her head that made far more sense that whatever she’d _thought_ he said.

“Yes! I don’t actually think I properly thanked you for that, by the way.”

Killian smiled and took a risk, tugging down the sheet from where it rested on her shoulders to just above her belly button, his eyes raking over her chest. “Oh, I’d say you thanked me quite thoroughly,” he teased, caressing her cheek with his thumb as he locked eyes with her.

He wasn’t sure if she’d laugh it off or play along, but she was clearly going for the _latter_ , leaning into his touch before inching further forward to brush her lips against his. It was slow, soft, tentative, but somehow it was still everything. He kissed her back, of course, and tried to infuse a bit more _passion_ , but Emma giggled and pulled back just enough so she could speak. “You didn’t let me thank you as fully in that manner as I would have liked,” she said, one of her hands brushing down his sheet-covered hip until she made contact with _another_ part of him (that was very much begging for her touch). “But what I meant was that I kind of owe you now. Do you want a part of the bounty? Usually Graham and I agreed on that kind of thing ahead of time to avoid the weirdness of negotiation, but _oops_.” She laughed and it sounded like music for her to be so open, so free, so _not pushing him away_.

He’d been so distracted by trying to keep her well – and then by reveling in the fact that she actually _wanted him_ – that he’d nearly forgotten there was truly something he needed to ask of her. Something important that he once thought he might have to grovel to get from her.

“Well, Swan, now that you mention it, there _is_ something you could do for me that would be more like a trade than actual payment.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “I know it’s pretty clear I want to fuck you, but please don’t make a whole whorish thing, OK?” she asked, her voice choking on a laugh by the end of the sentence.

“Emma! That’s absolutely _not_ what I was suggesting. Despite our current nudity, I’m actually talking business here. Mind out of the gutter if you please?” They both laughed and Emma made a show of turning very businesslike, sitting up straight and steepling her fingers and tilting her head in mock concentration.

_God, how could someone be so cute and so painfully hot at the same time?_

“Well, I was hoping you’d continue to help me out with the excursions. You made such a good pirate, love, and the actresses were – sorry to say it – total shit by comparison. You and Ruby were so engaging and fun and genuine. The ones I interviewed looked like they were trying out for a primary school production of _Peter Pan._ ”

“Oh, be nice. You only think I’m good at it because I’m _free help_. And your best friend.”

“While that might be true, love, it’s also not the only reason. You two made that party a success. The next one is a nighttime deal if that sways you any?” He threw her his most charming smile and mostly just hoped for the best.

Her gaze turned sultry and teasing and Killian was doing his best to channel all of his bloodflow to his brain and not elsewhere. “And would this count as a _date_?” she asked, drawing lazy circles across his chest with a touch so light he might have been dreaming it.

He gasped but tried his best to keep his composure. At least for the time being. “Are you that eager to ride me, Swan?”

“Would you really stop me if I tried right now?” Emma bent down, trailing her lips along every piece of skin her fingers brushed, her hard nipples brushing against his belly as he body shook with light giggles.

“So your friends _were_ right? You _do_ want to bang your hot neighbor?” He teased, running his fingers through her very messy hair.

“No! Well, _yes_. But you already knew that.” Emma crawled back up and clasped her hands together behind Killian’s neck, shifting so she was hovering atop him, her knees on either side of one of his legs.

“I’ll help you. Not as a date and not because I _owe_ you. Just because I want to. Plus I think we can both agree I was pretty damn good at it. Now,” she leaned down, brushing her lips against his, her teeth scraping at his bottom lip before closing around it and _tugging_. “I need a shower. And I wouldn’t want to offend you by asking you to join me before we’ve even had a _date_. So why don’t you make us breakfast?” Emma rolled off him, with nearly _zero_ finesse, but Killian still thought she was the most beautiful, intelligent, erotic, hilarious, graceful, maddening woman he’d ever met in his life.

And she was dangerously close to being _his_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points if you spotted the Talladega Nights reference hahahahaha


	12. F is for Forget-Me-Not

She knew damn well this wasn’t a one-time or two-time or even three-time thing the second he handed her that same _wench_ costume, this time entirely devoid of a renting slip.

The bastard had _bought_ it. And not because he was betting her full-time replacement might end up being exactly her size. No, it was because he expected it to be _her_ … indefinitely.

And that should make her angry. Because when she’d said she’d help him she’d meant it, of course, but should he really have assumed it would be a permanent arrangement? By all rights she should be _pissed_. Sure, she’d just earned herself a significant amount of money and wasn’t exactly overburdened with work now that she wasn’t strapped for cash. So she did have the _time_. But for him to just _assume_?

But she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even scared about her entire _lack_ of anger. She was just excited and a little bit nervous but most of all happy to be a part of something.

(That _something_ being a little pirate family with her serendipitous current and former neighbors, the two people in this world who understood her, valued her, dare she say _loved_ her.)

A loud, very _annoyed_ series of knocks sounded on the wall next to Emma’s head.

“Will you stop daydreaming about getting me out of my leathers, darling? We need to get to the ship. So… “ He offered her the tagless outfit and quirked his eyebrow at her responding smirk as she curtsied sarcastically (was that a thing?) and excused herself to her bedroom to prepare for the evening on Killian’s ship.

Ruby was meeting them at the docks – tonight’s crowd was a fraternity formal, so they didn’t need to _prepare_ much beyond showing up with smiles and ample cleavage. Killian had been worried he would regret taking on this large of a touring group (and likely a _drunk_ one), but the experience and the money had swayed him to accepting the group on a trial basis – _bugger up one thing and I’ll turn the damn ship around and throw every last one of you off it_ , Emma had heard him snarl at the group’s president over the phone.

(Killian later claimed he was “in character” as the ruthless pirate, but she knew he was mostly just terrified of college kids fucking up his ship and his anxiety tended to come out as _anger_.)

Once she’d laced up her bodice and adjusted the leather and fluffed her hair just right, she exited her room and took the arm of her pirate captain/neighbor/almost-(maybe)-soon-to-be-boyfriend, sharing matching goofy smiles with him as their leather-clad torsos rubbed together, a slightly obscene (and somewhat embarrassing) squeak echoing in their tiny hallway.

-

He never could explain why he’d picked _this_ apartment complex. There had been cheaper ones, newer ones. There’d even been whole _houses_ that weren’t that bad _and_ were within sight of the marina. But – like a _dumbass_ (he’d thought at the time) – he chose a cheap-ish apartment with little to no appeal, its tiny halls and thin walls and inconvenient parking situation nothing to celebrate over.

(Oh, but he had plenty of reasons to celebrate now, he thought, a _pang_ shocking his entire central nervous system as her fingers threaded through his in the blinding sunlight of the surprisingly cool afternoon.)

It really was going to be an easy evening. The college students had paid double on the down payment considering they were most certainly a _risk_ , and they didn’t want any kind of real theatrics. Just the atmosphere of partying on a pirate ship – rum included (for those above the age of 21), of course – and the clear sky was going to make for some wonderful photos they could post to their Instagrams and Snapchats and whatever ridiculous social media platforms the kids were using these days (bloody hell, at what point did Killian begin to sound like one of those blokes playing chess in the park, annoyed at the rowdy football game threatening to knock over their precious horses and castles?).

Emma seemed to be in a pleasant mood – a sight he always enjoyed – but he had a certain level of worry for how that might very quickly melt away. Sure, the evening might not be _hard_ or requiring much practice. But he knew young men (he’d been one, after all), and they could rightly _suck_ from time to time. The drunken flirting, the severe overstepping of boundaries… he just didn’t want Emma to be forced to feel uncomfortable all night (nor did he want to witness those jerks _making_ her that way).

It could end poorly. It could end with black eyes and lawsuits. But as Emma swung their joined hands and the sunlight glinted off the shiny snaps of her corset, he just couldn’t fathom a scenario that could make this night go badly.

-

It was going badly. Not _Killian making frat boys walk the plank_ bad or anything, but it was certainly more painful than Emma had anticipated.

If _one more jackass_ took Killian’s prop hook and asked her if she wanted to “hook up” _she_ was going to walk the fucking plank herself. And at first she wrote off her reaction as her general tendency toward being cranky at idiot men. As much as she loved helping Killian out like this, she really wasn’t the biggest people person. But Emma had caught Ruby’s eyes more than once that evening and she’d looked just as miserable as her (in her eyes, of course, Ruby maintained her flirtatious smile… for the _job_ ).

Even Killian wasn’t immune to the chicanery. A few of the gentleman were preoccupied with drinking games on the deck of the ship, so their dates entertained themselves otherwise… by flirting with the good captain. Emma would probably be a little bit jealous – if only she’d had a single cell in her body not preoccupied with fantasizing about the murders of various ass-slapping, hoot-and-hollering, pathetic excuses for men.

Ugh. This is why she hadn’t ever liked guys that age – even when _she_ was.

It was sometime after the beer pong tournament (that ended when they lost all their balls off the side of the ship), but _before_ the cascading rum runner puke fountain that Emma realized Ruby had had _enough_. She was straight up cringing as a man swayed into her, spilling his beer down her cleavage (drunkenness didn’t mesh well with the motion of the ocean, it seemed), still desperately trying to flirt. Or something.

Killian had noticed her discomfort at almost the same time as Emma – he even seemed to contemplate leaving the helm to step in and fuck up the idiot badgering Ruby – but Emma waved him off and approached the oncoming _train wreck_ instead.

“Um, excuse me. What do you think you’re doing to my friend here?”

He swayed on his feet again, fluttering his eyes as if to try to blink away Emma’s obvious annoyance. “Whaaa, we’re just talking here. The wench is enjoying herself, as you can see.”

At that, Ruby _snapped_. “The wench is: A. not a fucking _wench_ ; and B. _not_ enjoying herself. I’m a pirate and a badass and I swear to god if your sticky hand comes within so much as a foot of me one more time I’m going to take the Captain’s hook and shove it up your fucking ass.”

The idiot opened his mouth with an overconfident lift of his eyebrows – he was clearly about to make some slimy attempt at flirtation – but Ruby shut him down _fast_.

“And _not_ as foreplay, you _gross_ excuse for a human. I suggest you go have a water break or, I don’t know, go call your mommy and daddy and ask why they raised such a fucking failure or do something else productive and _far away from me_.”

A small crowd had gathered, the man’s brothers trying to calmly suggest he go somewhere else and “chill” and for that Emma was glad – she’d been fully prepared to commit some violence, if needed, but was preferring not to fuck Killian’s day up like that (those rich brats would probably call mommy’s lawyers and _sue_ them and that was just not even close to necessary at this particular moment in their lives).

The guy had one hundred percent been over the line. But (unfortunately) his behavior wasn’t uncommon in the least. Every woman Emma had ever _met_ had dealt with similar situations and as inexcusable as it was, they’d all developed various levels of defense mechanisms and tolerance for it. You know, for survival. And Ruby – she was one of the _best_. She was incredible at brushing off the obnoxious behavior of (some) men, often used it to her benefit or roasted them subtly.

It wasn’t like her to crack the way she just had. No, something was _wrong_.

“Ruby, are you – ” Emma started, but Killian’s booming voice cut her off.

“Listen up, asshats. If you cause one more dollar of damage on my ship or make so much as one untoward comment toward my friends or myself, I’ll be sending the footage from my security cameras to your Fraternity’s headquarters in addition to every news outlet from Buzzfeed to the New York Times. You know how hungry the media is for exposing you faux-Greek shits. So continue to be merry but stop being fucking dicks and we’ll all have a perfectly adequate evening. Saavy?”

Emma looked out at the crowd of twenty-somethings and honest to God _laughed_. She’d never seen a group of adults ever look so… _small_. Their faces were all fixed in ashamed/horrified expressions reminiscent of the days in the schoolyard when the principal finally stepped in to scare the bullies straight. It was positively _glorious_ how the men blushed and their dates cringed and suddenly they all were sipping a little slower and talking a little quieter and the focus very quickly shifted to the beautiful last moments of sunlight on the horizon and the thumping, joyful beat of the music wafting out of Killian’s speakers.

(God, that man could probably save the world if he really tried.)

As Emma watched the now somewhat-behaved college kids (seriously, they would barely even make _eye contact_ with her now, let alone attempt any cheesy pickup lines) she searched the crowd for Killian. He deserved some serious praise for laying down the law to those crazy kids – but Emma couldn’t seem to locate him. Or Ruby. God, she prayed there wasn’t _another_ catastrophe somewhere. Maybe Ruby really did haul off and deck that little fucker who wouldn’t leave her alone and Killian was helping her toss the body off the edge. It’s not like Emma would blame them.

After a few unsuccessful minutes of searching, Emma sat down to a table with an open seat, the kids there crowded around some dice and playing cards. “What are you boys playing?” she asked, chuckling as they stared nervously among one another, probably worried the teacher was coming to shut down their game. “Seriously, I was wondering what you’re playing. I’m bored and enjoy winning money. Deal me in?”

The game was one of their making, but Emma still _destroyed_ them all at it. The whole group had relaxed themselves about her company the _first_ time she won, but by her fifth victory they were (lovingly) trash talking her and making her one of their own.

(No matter how old she was, no matter how shitty the people, it still felt great to _belong_ , if only for a moment.)

(Plus it was nice to salvage such a shitty day. _Find the good_ , you know?)

Killian had apparently reappeared in enough time to properly sail the ship into port, because he was yelling _land hoy_ or something else piratey as they finished up their last game (Emma stuffing the cash she won quite unceremoniously between her breasts). The fraternity’s president approached Killian at the helm and appeared to slip him a little extra cash while doing the manly handshake-pull-half-hug-back-slap routine and caught her eye over the man’s shoulder, winking as if to say _totally worth it_ (must have been a pretty big wad of cash to justify _that_ ).

Just as the last stragglers disembarked the lovely ship, Emma finally caught a glimpse of Ruby, her hair a complete mess and her eyes clearly bloodshot, as she scurried down the gangplank and toward her car.

“Ruby! Wait up!”

“It’s OK, Emma, I’ll see you later!” She shouted back over her shoulder, not slowing down for a second.

Fuck. Something was wrong. And not just _oops I applied too much self tanner_ wrong. It was _wrong_ wrong.

And it seemed Ruby believe Emma could be of any help to her.

 _Ouch_.

-

He’d survived the evening and so had all the halfwits. A bloody miracle, it was, because Killian had dreamed up several very creative ways to murder the blokes and get away with it. Every time they put a hand on Ruby or Emma, every glass they broke, every spill, every foul-mouthed load of garbage that poured out of their obviously uneducated brains, he just wanted to, well, do like Ruby had threatened and shove his hook up their ass. Or through their goddamn skull, more like it.

But he _hadn’t_. Emma was fine and Ruby was – well, not _fine_ , but she was OK. Or, at least she _would_ be. Hopefully.

They’d all survived and they’d made some money (yes, he’d obviously be sharing with his friends, who suffered far more than _he_ had) and everything was going to be all right. He’d have to make some changes, of course, both to his contract and to his insurance policy. But even on a night like this one, fraught with tension and idiocy, he still felt far more at home than he ever had on Wall Street.

If only Milah could see him now.

Maybe she _could_. He believed in _something_ , though he wasn’t sure exactly what. And he couldn’t imagine a scenario where she wasn’t in the best place possible. Maybe they allowed little visits once in a while to check in on your loved ones not yet passed. Maybe she knew he was happy and moving forward and maybe – just _maybe_ – on the path to being _loved_ again.

It struck him every once in a while the way Emma looked at him. He knew she _cared_. At the end of the day (or the beginning or middle or any moment you cared to analyze) she was his best friend. And he was hers. But the softness of her gaze, the protectiveness in her hold, the curve of her lips when he smiled at her – it was all far more than _like_ or _friend_. She’d agreed to go on a date (eventually), so of course it was _something_. But Killian dared to thing it very well could become _everything_.

That is, if he didn’t fuck anything up. Which he may have already. He was going to have to address that but _quick_.

Bloody buggering _fuck_.

Emma and Killian had been cleaning up the ship for what seemed like an hour and it _still_ wasn’t done. He didn’t want to waste the rest of the night dealing with the fallout of the frat shenanigans, but if the spilled drinks and vomit didn’t get addressed right away, it would bake in the sun the next day and probably cause _him_ to vomit if he put it off too long. And Emma was quick to help out, determined to get him home faster ( _you’ve worked so hard today and need some rest. Or something else_ , she’d said with a flirty smile, one that made his heart sink with guilt since he hadn’t exactly shared that they wouldn’t be _alone_ tonight).

So once they’d cleaned up everything imminent and gathered the garbage and lost/left behind items, they dropped things off at the dumpster and washed their hands ( _thoroughly_ ) and then clasped their fingers together and made for the train tracks, the quickest way home.

“I’m sorry about today, Emma.” Killian squeezed her hand and met her eyes with the most apologetic look he could muster (he was so tired there was no telling what exactly his face was actually conveying at the moment). Emma responded with a squeeze and a smile, so he assumed he was mostly on the right track as they kept walking. He asked her about some of the skeezier guys and they talked about his own college experience and how she’d won so much money from the bastards after Killian’s little meltdown, and it was comfortable. Easy. He could imagine nights like this from now until, well, _forever_.

Emma’s yawns were getting dangerously close together and their apartment building was still a few minutes away, but Killian stopped her anyway, asking her to close her eyes for a moment to receive a surprise.

“Are you kidnapping me, Killian? Because seriously, I’m so tired you could have at least waited until we got home to do that. I wouldn’t even struggle at this rate if you’d just do the gentlemanly thing and let me sleep.” Her sarcasm wasn’t quite as biting when she was this tired, but he smiled and promised it would be worth it if she’d just _play along_.

“Come on, Emma. Just a second. I won’t let you fall asleep on the train tracks, I swear.”

She shook her head and tilted her nose in the air like she was disagreeing, but after a breath she closed her eyes and balled her fists and Killian tiptoed off the tracks to a little patch of blue flowers just at the edge of the woods. He picked enough of them to make a tiny little bouquet, wrapping a loose stem around the green parts so they’d stay together as he approached Emma – who was clearly even more tired than she was letting on if the way she was swaying indicated anything.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered, his lips close enough to hers that they almost brushed against them as he spoke. She looked into his eyes and then down at her right hand, which Killian was trying to un-clench so she would take his little offering.

Once it registered what exactly he was doing, Emma grabbed the flowers from his hand and brought them up to her nose, sniffing at them as she ran her finger across the delicate blue petals. “Forget-me-nots, huh? Worried I’m so tired I’m not going to remember you come tomorrow?”

“Nah, I know you’d never forget me. I’m too devilishly handsome for _that_ ,” he joked, fully prepared for a head-shake and an eye roll from his beautiful pirate wench princess. But instead she tossed the flowers aside and wrapped her hand around his neck, pulling until his lips met hers, her mouth moving frantically over his as he grasped her waist to keep them standing. She laughed into the kiss – this was clearly not a safe activity for this particular moment as they were both practically dead on their feet. But he was never going to deny Emma the affection he was so dying to _give_ her. Even if it led to them lying in a bed of Forget-Me-Nots under only the light of the moon.

Killian tried to keep his balance as Emma’s tongue stroked against his, but the second her teeth tugged on his top lip, he was _done_. His spine was tingling and his pants were getting tighter and he was just the tiniest bit _dizzy_ and all of a sudden he was tripping over a railroad spike and Emma was using all of her weight to keep him from knocking his head against the tracks as he collapsed to the ground.

“Really, Jones? I was trying to knock your socks off, not literally blow you over.”

“Oh, you can blow me _all you want_ , Swan.” Clearly the college kids had been a bad influence, because the horrible line was out of his mouth before his brain could stop him.

“Yeah, anytime except when I practically _beg_ too, right?” She snarked back, thankfully not taking any offense to his ridiculous completely-not-serious comment.

(OK, yeah, he _wanted_ her to do that, obviously. But not _yet_. Not until it meant more than _holy shit you’re the hottest pirate I’ve ever seen_.)

She continued to berate him for his inability to multitask standing and kissing for the rest of the walk home, and it wasn’t until their parking lot was in sight that Killian remembered there was something very important he needed to tell Emma before they got back home.

“What’s Ruby doing here already? I don’t think I have any missed texts…” Emma wondered aloud, reaching for her phone (strapped to her leg under her skirt).

“No, I suppose not. Because I was supposed to fill you in. But you _distracted me_.” He was chagrined but still trying to keep it light.

“Ruby is actually going to stay with me for a while. She had a fight with Whale – she’ll fill you in fully on her own terms – but she can’t stay with him right now. And I have a pullout couch that’s actually quite comfortable and she said it would be comforting to be back in her old place. I hope this is OK with you?” Shit, please let her be OK with this. Please, _please_. He valued his friendship with Ruby and he’d made her a promise he had every intention to _keep_. But he wasn’t going to let anything put a wedge between him and Emma.

“Oh! Of _course_ that’s fine. I mean I wish she would have told me what’s going on, but if she trusted you with it then that’s good. And my couch does suck for sleeping. I get it,” she assured him, reaching out to cup his cheek. “You look like you want to crawl in a hole and die, Killian. I promise I’m not doing the _say-one-thing-but-mean-another_ move. I’m OK with this.” She slowly moved closer to him, keeping her eyes fixed on his until they were too close to focus, kissing him chastely but seeming to pour every bit of emotion into it she had left.

“Just remember,” she said with a smile and a tug of her hand in his. “I can hear through the walls. So don’t be pulling a Mean Girls and talking about me. I’ll know. And I’ll set you both on fire.”

Her smile was John Watson-level terrifying as she skipped off toward the apartment complex. Damn that woman for being equal parts intimidating and so fucking cute he couldn’t think straight.

He saw Emma and Ruby embrace as soon as Emma got to Ruby’s car and the two girls carried Ruby’s bags into the apartment, chatting (complaining about frat boys) until he made it inside to unlock his door. The three of them worked to make the pullout bed comfortable and to arrange Ruby’s things in the bathroom so she didn’t feel too displaced, and after only a mild amount of bitching to Killian about his choice of _clientele_ , Emma excused herself to her own apartment for what she called _time to pass the fuck out._

He walked her to her door and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead as he said goodnight.

“Don’t worry, Killian. I’m not going to forget,” she whispered in his ear as she hugged him one last time (and his heart _melted_ ).

-

She couldn’t get over all the crazy. Dressing like a pirate, dealing with idiotic men, learning that her friend Ruby seemed to trust Killian more than her? It was _weird_.

Weird, but _good_. Ruby hadn’t trusted many people in her life. Like Emma, she was a bit of a loner. If she trusted Killian then _good_. Emma was happy to have facilitated a new friendship that she really thought could work out. The two of them – they were so similar and yet so _different_. Spending time with Ruby might just brighten Killian’s days. And spending time with Killian might just soften Ruby’s very sharp edges. It was a win-win.

(Well Emma lost a little bit… because she couldn’t go making out [or more] with the neighbor when his roommate/her friend could hear. But Emma could be patient. _Hopefully_.)

Emma had just finished her nighttime routine, had lay down in bed with her newest mystery novel clutched in her hands (she was sure to fall asleep with it on her face, but hey she was still going to try to get in a chapter or two before that), when she overheard Ruby and Killian through the painfully thin walls.

“Ohhhh Killy Bear? Tell me a bedtime story!” Ruby mockingly begged from the living room.

“Once upon a time in a tiny little apartment there lived a princess who hated noise. One day, little red riding hood was crashing on the pirate's couch next door and was very loud and the princess came over and chopped her head off. The end!” Killian shouted back, his voice muffled as if his head were already smashed between his pillow and the blanket.

Ruby laughed and Emma smiled and two sets of knocking sounded from the other side of the wall, the goodnight pattern of _knock-knock, knock-knock-knock_ clear despite the overlap.

“Goodnight, noisy friends,” she shouted back, falling happily asleep before she’d read so much as a single page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter focuses on Emma and Ruby and is called "Overidentifying with Taylor Effing Swift."


	13. Over-Identifying with Taylor Effing Swift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to post this chapter. Real life is a bitch. 
> 
> Also, I named this chapter long before any of the recent Taylor Swift drama. The chapter title just refers to love songs and could probably be substituted with various artists - no Taylor hate intended!

Adulting was the fucking _worst_.

Seriously, at least some people had the benefit of an idyllic childhood – not _Killian_ , of course, but at the very least it was a possibility. But had anyone ever described a grown-up scenario as idyllic? Not unless they were in a fucking fairy tale. And even then you never actually got to _see_ that part of it. The meat of the story was dragon slaying and evil-stepmother-outsmarting. The floofy happily ever after part was always just a platitude, a sentence to lull children to sleep at night.

No, adulthood was _stupid_. It was bills and complications and being the bigger person and to-do lists and a whole gamut of bullshit that was so much shittier than even the worst afternoon on the schoolyard.

Killian wasn’t one to _whine_ – no, he was generally the _suck it up_ type – but today he was cranky. After leaving his soul-sucking adult job on Wall Street, he’d opted for a more exciting, a little more carefree and fun-spirited career… only to be slammed in the face with the harsh realities of such a jolly lifestyle.

There’s the cleanup and the logistics and all the basic planning and whatnot. But then there’s the really icky stuff.

Like obtaining sufficient insurance.

Yeah, he wasn’t an idiot. He _had_ insurance on his ship, on the business. But considering he’d upped the maximum capacity on the excursions _and_ added alcohol (and risky _young_ patrons), he was going to need to reassess the policy and pay for higher coverage. Not only because it was the smart, adult thing to do – to play it safe – but because his whole operation could literally get shut down if he didn’t.

So here he was, bopping along to the _Hair Nation_ channel on Sirius radio, quietly lamenting the fact that his beautiful neighbor wasn’t able to tag along to keep him company.

No, she was busy with their currently _heartbroken_ friend and for that he could never be upset with her. She was a glorious human being with a heart far larger than she ever gave herself credit for. So she was on Haagen-Daas/gun range/chick flick/ _whatever women did to console themselves_ duty while Killian was off being a grown up.

Ugh. _Life_.

-

It had been a very hectic few days since _Frat Boys at Sea Disaster ’16_. But hectic wasn’t always _bad_. No, in a way it was comforting in a way that Emma hadn’t ever experienced. The constant chatter between the walls, the coming and going of multiple people between she and Killian’s apartments as if it functioned as one residence, one _home_ – it was enough to make her feel like she was part of a family.

Ruby was always around, having taken time off work that she’d been saving up for _years_. Killian was constantly on and off the phone to try to figure out stupid insurance stuff for his boat. Will and Robin and Regina stopped by at least once a day to share meals, watch soccer, and bitch about their jobs. It was fast-paced and loud and just _constant_.

And it didn’t bother Emma in the least.

Ok, that was a lie. Not because the steady stream of activity was a _bad_ thing. She was just somewhat… _frustrated_ at the entire lack of privacy.

She and Killian _knew_ how they felt about each other. Or, well, at least were on the path to knowing how they felt about each other. They knew enough to know that they needed some alone time, anyway. But such a thing was seeming more impossible than ever. How the hell were they supposed to go on a date when they knew damn well nothing could happen when they came home?

Ok, that sounded bad. She wasn’t obsessed with the _physical_ aspect of their developing relationship by any means. But there was something maddening about knowing they already had a check in every other facets-of-a-healthy-relationship column _except_ for that one.

Plus she’d been working herself up for _months_ trying desperately _not_ to think of Killian that way. Now that she’d given herself permission, it was just a little bit (a lot) irritating that it couldn’t actually come to anything.

And then this morning arrived and Ruby was heading out to hot yoga or PiYo or some other trendy workout class –

And Killian was leaving for a meeting with his insurance agent.

Ugh. _Life_.

In all the hustle and bustle of do everything possible to distract Ruby from her sadness until she’s actually ready to talk about it, Emma had been sorta, kinda neglecting her own life. She’d made a significant amount of money on her last catch and Killian had been splitting tips with her and Ruby for the excursions, but she was somewhat lacking a long term plan. Honestly, she was kind of _over_ the bail bonds life. But she wasn’t exactly sure what else she would do.

Well, beyond faux-wenching on a pirate ship.

So she spent her afternoon googling things like “jobs people don’t hate” and “how to become a private investigator” and “what time is Ghostbusters playing” (everyone needs a little break for some funny) and before she knew it, Ruby had returned to Killian’s place, squawking her head off for Emma to come play.

“Play what, exactly?” Emma shouted back, leery of what kind of game Ruby would be interested in (she’d been known to use Emma as a guinea pig for all her ridiculous and nonsensical attempts at the hot new party game – including but not limited to: Scrabbleships, beer bowling, and hands-free charades).

“Final Fantasy, duh. I bet Killian $50 I could get further than him in one day than he’s gotten in the last week.”

It gave Emma’s heart a little squeeze to hear Ruby so comfortably talking about Killian like he was her annoying big brother and not just some guy she’d caught her best friend naked with that one time. “And what exactly is my role in this game?” Emma asked, knowing full well that it was a one player kind of adventure.

“Well, darling, I’m feeling particularly share-y today and I think the only way I’m going to be able to talk to you about Whale is if I’m punching something. So I’ll settle for actual conversation with digital punching. It’s the safest bet, right? Now get the fuck over here so I can stop yelling!” Ruby raised her voice comically loud in the last few words – trying to break the tension of her own words, certainly – and Emma chuckled in response, opting to show up next door rather than shouting back.

Emma burst through Killian’s door no more than 3.5 seconds later, but was somehow still met with a “ _god_ , took you long enough” from Ruby (who was still glowing with sweat and blush from whatever activity she’d been doing before).

“Sorry. Traffic.” Emma rolled her eyes, following Ruby to Killian’s bedroom where the PS4 was set up on his dresser. The two of them rearranged his mess of pillows so they could comfortably lounge while Ruby kicked alien ass (was this game about aliens? Probably). Emma couldn’t deny the guilt she felt curling into Killian’s bed, smelling his aftershave and cologne and the ever-lingering scent of salt and leftover coffee grounds – all without the man himself actually _being_ there. She was happy, of course, that Ruby seemed to be ready to talk. But _god_ she missed Killian.

And how fucking ridiculous was it to miss someone like this when they _weren’t even yours_?

(Yet.)

Between Emma’s guilt/longing/ _what the fuck has happened to me_ train of thought and the somewhat hypnotic, ethereal music wafting from the flat screen on the wall, Emma had kind of _spaced out_. But Ruby breaking her silence broke the reverie.

“I think Whale was cheating on me. Is cheating on me? I don’t know about tense or frequency or whatever. But… there was something.”

God, just what Ruby _didn’t_ need – the guy she’d finally taken a real chance on turning out to be a fucking dick.

“Why do you think that?”

Ruby frantically pressed some buttons as the music coming from the PS4 got more intense – probably a battle scene – as she seemed to try to gather her words.

“He’s been distant. Having weird excuses for not coming home when he said he would. I guess he’s just been… weird.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“ _That’s_ the worst part. Yeah, I asked him what’s been going on. I asked him if there was something he was hiding or dealing with. I was really open with him and genuinely worried about him – not even jumping to conclusions or anything. And then when his answers were vague and weird, instead of getting pissed and screaming and telling him he’s a fucking douchebag, I just got _sad_. And that’s _not me_ , Emma. I’m not the precious princess. I’m the fucking _wolf_. But instead of biting his head off, I just started crying. And then got _embarrassed_ and ran away. What is _wrong_ with me?”

Ruby tapped the pause button and for the first time looked Emma in the eyes. Without hesitation, Emma reached for her hand and squeezed. “You are _not weak_. Just because your life suddenly feels like a Taylor Swift song doesn’t mean that anything about you has changed, sweetheart.”

“But – ” Ruby tried to cut her off.

“But _nothing_ Ruby. I know how you feel. Kind of. I’m not saying that it’s the exact situation, of course. I mean Killian and I aren’t really _anywhere_ in our relationship-type-thing right now. But he’s made me all gushy inside. Hopeful and _soft_. I know we’re more _fuck ‘em and leave ‘em_ than we’ve ever been the _loving_ kind, but it’s not a _bad_ thing,” Emma insisted, keeping her eyes locked with Ruby’s.

And she meant it. It’s something this whole mess with Killian has made her question a hundred times. There were good reasons for the walls around her heart, the walls Killian was taking a metaphorical sledgehammer to daily. But in reality, _Ruby_ had done the same for her. As had Mary Margaret and David. People bringing down your walls weren’t destroying your architecture or some shit like that. It was like Scottie had said in Star Trek: you can’t break a twig when it’s in a bundle. All those people in Emma and Ruby’s lives had made them not weaker but _stronger_.

(More _cheesy_ , though, for sure – Emma was blushing just thinking these things in her head, let alone saying them out loud.)

“I’m a Korn kind of girl. I like loud and weird and just a little bit dark. _I don’t identify with Taylor Swift_.”

Of course _that’s_ the part Ruby latched onto. “Sorry, Rubes. _It’s a love story, baby, just say yes_ ,” Emma sang, intentionally off-key and terrible. “But that sad revelation aside, what do you think is actually going on? You honestly seem a little more upset that you _care_ than that Whale might be cheating. Which, by the way, if he is, I will cut his dick of with a very dull butter knife. Just saying.”

Ruby chuckled and started up the game again, the music getting louder as she entered a different screen. “Honestly? I don’t think he’s cheating. But _something_ is going on that he apparently doesn’t trust me enough to tell me about. Which makes me feel like shit, considering I’ve trusted him with _everything_.”

“Does he know your Netflix password?”

“Ok, maybe not _everything_. Some things are sacred.”

-

Insurance was fucking expensive.

Insurance on businesses that incorporated water travel and alcohol were downright outrageous.

He’d had such a wonderful vision of this sailing adventure. He was going to make people happy day in and day out with cutesy themed outings. He was going to make money _without_ selling his soul to the goddamn devil. He was going to incorporate his friends-turned-family and life wasn’t going to be terrible anymore.

If only he could _afford_ to make this reality.

No, at this rate, he was going to drain his savings in less than a year and after that he’d tank. Unless he upped his business to an almost daily thing, possibly _twice a day_ , and possibly increased his staffing to include another sailor _and_ another boat.

God, he just felt _sick_. Yeah, it made sense to have insurance. Shit could go very badly – he knew that more than most people. But reality was really fucking up the living fantasy he thought he was in the middle of living.

Ugh.

But on the plus side, he was only about 100 feet from returning home to his two favorite girls. Emma had been texting him the last two days, all about her and Ruby’s adventures (he’d lost the Final Fantasy bet a hell of a lot faster than he thought he would) and – his favorite – about how much she _missed him_.

It’d been a long time since he’d been missed by anyone and reading the messages from Emma – the borderline mushy comments paired with the slightly risqué photos (OK, they were just your run of the mill selfies, but she was so beautiful it made his pants get tighter just to see her lounging in her bloody pajamas) – it had him feeling like he could conquer the fucking world.

As long as he had a little bit of help.

“Honey, I’m home!” Killian called as he swung open his door, a smile plastered on his face as he saw Emma and Ruby’s shoes kicked off next to the coat rack in his living room.

“Darling! Dinner is almost ready!” Ruby called back, waving a Chinese takeout menu as he grabbed some beers from the fridge. “How was the trip?”

“Good and bad. They can help me, but I’m going to have to up my game. By a _lot_.”

“Up what game? Your video game game? Because I’d just give up. Ruby’s fucking magic on that thing,” Emma said, smirking as she emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on her jeans before grasping Killian’s shoulder and dropping a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Sadly, no. I mean my actual _job_ game. I basically have to go _all in_ if I want to keep up with the piratey excursions. I’m going to have to start marketing and actually working every day of the week. Just like I never wanted to have to do ever again.”

Killian could barely get out his groan before Ruby squealed at him. “But we’ll help! This could become our actual full-time thing, Emma.”

To her credit, Emma didn’t _outwardly_ panic. But Killian could tell that her reaction, though positive, was still at least 85% shock.

“Um, I mean… yeah. We – we want to help you however we can.”

“Don’t tell me you want to just keep chasing lowlifes all your life, Emma.”

Killian reached his hand out to squeeze Emma’s hand as she rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say no, did I? But maybe this would be better off as a project between _you two_. I don’t know I have the personality for marketing.

A gentle knocking sounded from his front door and Emma seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. (She’d probably joke it was because he was hungry, but Killian knew that wasn’t _all_.) After he paid for the food, the girls grabbed their boxes and their beer and made for Emma’s living room – Killian overheard something about a _private conversation_ and figured it wasn’t exactly his place to interfere.

-

“What the hell was that, Ruby?” Emma whisper-shouted as soon as her front door was closed behind them.

“What?!” Ruby feigned innocence. God, if that girl hadn’t just bared her soul to Emma the fucking day before she would have punched her in her stupid face.

“Why are you volunteering me for full time jobs with my neighbor?” It’s not like she didn’t want to help Killian. She kinda loved her actress duties on his ship and of course she wanted him to succeeed at his whole business plan.

But she hadn’t even gotten a _date_ with the man yet and her best friend was basically offering her up as his full-on business partner. If all she was ever going to be was his _friend_ it wouldn’t be much of a problem. But she couldn’t let anything fuck up their romance _before it actually began_. And _business_ was always a risk. Even husbands and wives often couldn’t handle working together. How the hell do you manage having _zero_ alone time from a person when you’re not even good with people?

Oh, you know, you _don’t_.

“You need to take a risk, Emma! The two of you clearly make a good team. Actually, the _three_ of us do. And you shouldn’t be doing bail bonds anymore. You’re good at it, sure, but you could do _so much more_. I just want you to take a chance.”

Emma’s first instinct was to snap. But she did the whole _breathe and count to ten_ thing and focused on Ruby’s good intentions and tried to respond calmly. “I think we make a good team, but I’m already taking a huge chance here just letting him in. Didn’t we just talk about this yesterday?”

“Yes. We did. And what I took from it is that he makes you _better_.”

“So far, yes. But I can’t risk fucking up my romantic life _and_ my primary source of income all because I put all my eggs in one basket or… or whatever metaphor works in this scenario. Just… please don’t push it, OK? Don’t try to guilt me into too much too fast. I’m taking all the risks I can already.”

“Emma, you haven’t even actually gone _out_ with him yet. That’s not very risky.”

“Ruby, please. I’m begging you. Just _don’t,_ ” Emma insisted in a hushed tone, the footsteps falling outside seemingly a warning that Killian was on his way to join them.

Emma had been so fluffy happy when it came to the Killian situation that she’d almost forgotten how fucking terrified she could get. How much she wanted to stick with overidentifying with the mushy Taylor Swift songs and _not_ the angry/sad ones.

(And even moreso how much she _didn’t want it to be her fault when it all came crashing down_.)

A knock sounded just a moment later and Emma and Ruby’s eyes both snapped to the far wall of Emma’s apartment – it was _Killian’s_ door someone was knocking on.

Hearing only what sounded like two male mumbles through the wall, Ruby looked to Emma and mouthed “Will?”

“He’d never knock,” she whispered back, scurrying into the bathroom to hear through the wall closest to his living room. Ruby wasn’t far behind, their ears shoved snug against the slightly chipped wallpaper.

It only took another few words from there for them to recognize the voice immediately.

_Whale_.

Ruby’s eyes bugged out like someone was squeezing them out of her skull and Emma lightly took her hand as they listened through the wall.

“Please, I know she’s staying with you. Mary Margaret spilled the beans – not that anyone is surprised. I just need to talk to her. Please.”

“Mate, she’s not your biggest fan right now. And from what I know about the situation, she _tried_ to talk to you. And you shut her out. She doesn’t take these things lightly. You’ve hurt her.”

“I _know_. And I hate myself for it. I want to make it better, just _please_.”

Things were quiet on the other side of the wall for just a little too long – Emma was hoping it hadn’t escalated to _violence_ or something – when Killian finally spoke up. “She _is_ staying with me, but she’s not here at the moment. I’ll give her the message that you stopped by. And if she chooses to contact you, then she will.”

There were some muttered goodbyes and the sounds of a closing door, some footsteps. Emma looked to Ruby to see if she’d go outside to talk to him, to see if maybe he’d take the chance and knock on Emma’s door – but none of those happened. The outside door closed and Ruby let out a deep breath and Killian rushed in a split second later.

“Ruby, I didn’t know if you’d want – I just told him you’d call him if you wanted to talk. I hope that’s what you wanted? We never actually talked about what to do in this scenario. Which we should have. I’m sorry I didn’t think to ask…”

Killian was adorably concerned about Ruby, so flustered at the prospect of possibly handling the surprising situation in a way that Ruby wouldn’t approve. If she hadn’t been so concerned with Ruby’s wellbeing she would have kissed him senseless for being so sweet. And perfect. And other things.

Ruby was obviously stunned but just as obviously _not mad_ , assuring Killian it was fine. “I’m not ready to talk to the bastard, but it’s nice to know he’s trying. Well trying- _ish_.”

“I know it’s not my place. I don’t know the bloke. But he seemed genuine in his concern for you. I don’t know what he’s actually done or why he’s been odd with you – but he loves you. I know that much.”

Ruby gave him a sad smile and shrugged. “I know.”

It was quiet after that. Just breathing and shuffling and not knowing where to go next.

Until Ruby, in classic Ruby-style, provided some seriously accurate comic relief. “God, we can’t tell Mary Margaret anything, right?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m surprised you didn’t lie to her.”

“Eh. I sort of _wanted_ him to be able to find me,” she said dismissively, clearly ready to move on from this particular topic.

(Emma knew the feeling.)

“So, ladies. Shall we rent a Redbox movie or do some shots?” Killian suggested, looking to Ruby for an answer.

“You know what I want more than anything?” she replied.

“To continue to beat Killian’s ass at video games? To do some graffiti? Smash some plates? Play _what would Killian’s sister look like_?”

“All excellent suggestions, Emma. But actually, I just want to go blow bubbles.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Killian whispered to Emma, smiling at Ruby even through her obvious annoyance at him.

“No, dirty mind. It’s what Ruby and I used to do when our days were too dark and gloomy. You can’t possibly take your situation too seriously when you’re blowing bubbles. It’s a nice break from reality.”

“And hey! No hangover,” Ruby cut in.

“I still have a supply in my closet. The big wands, too.”

“Well thank goodness for _that_.” God, Killian was adorable even when he was sarcastic. It had been far too long since Emma had kissed him and her general patience was wearing painfully thin on waiting to actually _be_ with him. _Now was not the time_ , she kept repeating in her head as the three of them slipped on their shoes and turned to leave.

But she must not have been quite as sneaky with her thoughts as she’d intended because they didn’t make it out Emma’s door before Ruby threw her hands in the air and shouted. “Oh for God’s sake, you can kiss in front of me. I’m not going to burst out in tears just because someone else’s boyfriend _doesn’t_ suck!”

Killian muttered a defeated but insistent “I’m not her boyfriend” at exactly the same time Emma shouted a very indignant “he’s not my boyfriend!”

Ruby’s answering eye roll was so dramatic it probably caused some form of semi-permanent damage to her optic nerve, but she only muttered _sure_ and pushed herself out the door – shutting it behind her in an apparent effort to give the budding lovebirds a _moment_.

(And Emma wanted to be annoyed at Ruby’s antics but she just couldn’t bring herself to be anything but _joyful_ as Killian quirked an eyebrow and brushed his fingers across her cheek as his lips softly closed around hers.)


	14. Anywhere But Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still on the Give Emma Friends kick, so this chapter is much heavier on broader relationships than just Killian and Emma. I hope you love it, anyway!

Ruby was a damn godsend.

(Yes, Killian was still a little concerned about Emma’s somewhat awkward avoidance at helping with anything beyond the acting – but that was an issue for a different time.)

_Now_ was the time to celebrate his wonderful new friend Ruby and all of her many skills and talents. From organizing his schedule into an app on his phone rather than in the tattered notebook he’d been carrying around a year before ever _starting_ the business to revamping his social media pages with stunning photos of his ship and testimonials about how “rad” he and the other “pirates” were – well, Killian was back on his feet in no time.

He’d started booking various kinds of events every single day of the week. Most of them were small, for families and tourists and not requiring the full pirate cast or even anything as exciting as food or drink. It was good – it was a steady stream of income, a brand new list of clients who raved about the sea and the sunsets and the breeze in their hair (opening a whole new word-of-mouth marketing campaign that Ruby guaranteed would bring in more revenue than if they paid a local ad agency to make a cheesy radio or TV ad to run on public channels).

She was right. He was gaining hundreds of Instagram followers by the day and was booking little retreats so far into the future he was already feeling like it was time to figure out how he could work Santa into his whole shtick.

But, of course, his newfound busy – and lonely – business schedule led to actually _seeing_ Ruby very infrequently.

And _Emma_ even less.

It had been about a week since Whale had showed up and Emma and Killian had taken Ruby to blow bubbles in the park, a delightful afternoon that he wouldn’t trade for anything.

But since that day, he’d seen Emma probably only three or four times – and at least two of those were merely in passing – Emma was walking home from the grocery store or the pharmacy or the post office and Killian just happened to be driving by on his way to the marina or to Will’s (the bastard has been drinking himself stupid about a woman he _hasn’t even dated yet_ ). One glorious night when Ruby was in the shower, Emma had knocked on his bedroom wall and called him over for a one of the most desperate makeout sessions he’d ever experienced – hands _everywhere_ , tongues stroking madly against one another, hips pressing so tightly together there were likely to be bruises on both of them the next day.

Emma had been breathily moaning as he pulled back, suggesting Ruby would probably be proud of them for finally easing their sexual tension, but he was staying strong. “Emma, we’re doing this the right way. I want all of you. Not seven minutes of hard fucking and praying our friend is going to take extra long in the shower tonight.”

She’d groaned and captured his lips again, but the urgency had eased and her frantic kisses had melted into gentle caresses rather than something resembling an assault (a _good_ one, but _still_ ).

He wanted her _so badly_ and even though he was pretty sure it was entirely reciprocal, he sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances.

Tomorrow he had an extra special excursion booked – a sunset dinner for a couple celebrating an evening that would hopefully become the one they got _engaged_. It was nerve wracking to prepare for such an evening – as much as he didn’t _want_ to imagine himself in this man’s shoes, he really couldn’t help it. Who wouldn’t want that night to go absolutely perfectly? Who wouldn’t want to shower the woman he loves with all the affection he could before he promised to do so for the rest of his life? Killian didn’t want to be the one to fuck up the evening. God forbid he serve the wrong sandwiches and give the woman an allergic reaction she interpreted as a sign she couldn’t marry the poor bloke. No, Killian was going to make sure it was the best proposal evening that couple could hope for. And _then_ some.

Since it was such an involved (though still intimate and non-piratey) evening, Killian was getting paid a bit extra, and had been promised a hefty tip. So he’d promised himself (and Emma via text message) that he was going to take a full day off work that week and they were finally, _finally_ going to have their date.

(Her excessive use of emojis on her response text warmed his heart and absolutely ensured that he had made the right decision, setting aside a day to love (no, _court_ ) her.

God, she was so beautiful. And despite not being actively on any bail bonds cases, she’d been so _busy_. Researching new careers, trying to decide where she belonged, what kind of impacts she could make on the world as a whole. She’d paid off some of her debts and had invested the rest of the money from her last catch, hoping to be able to use it on the future (a concept that made Killian’s belly just a little bit sick – as much as he wanted her to be happy and to find a lovely place to live, he couldn’t stomach the idea of sharing a wall with anyone but her).

She deserved a break. And so did he.

And if that _break_ just happened to progress into three hours of sweaty alone-on-the-ocean sex followed by a decision to _go steady_ , well that was just fine with him.

-

Emma ignored her phone the first three times it rang. Number she didn’t recognize paired with absolutely no one she could think of who might be trying to contact her? Fuck no. For her luck it was an identify fraud scam or an ex-boyfriend or a former foster parent who saw the light and decided she was owed an apology for the shit they made her adolescent life. Well, none of those things were interesting to her in the least. Nope, she was going to just keep lying on her bed, reading about risky and safe stock investments and watching the third episode of _Stranger Things_ this evening.

But when the phone rang a fourth time, she was finally worried. Killian was out on his boat ( _ship_ , she could hear him correcting), setting the perfect mood for some fluffy couple to get engaged. She’d sent him some joking messages about how he’d better not sink it or _what if they scurry off to your quarters to bang_ and various other funny comments to try to ease his quite apparent tension at being entrusted with helping a man pull off such an important event. But then she got to worrying. What if he _was_ sinking? Hopefully the dumbass would be smart enough to call 911 and not _her_ , but he’s the kind of hopeless romantic who might want to say his last goodbye or some shit like that.

Her heart was racing with _worst case scenarios_ about this number she didn’t recognize, so she snatched it up off her nightstand, swiped the screen so fast it didn’t even register her action on the first try, and almost choked on her own tongue when she gasped out a frantic _hello_.

“Er, Emma? I, uh, got your number from Killian. This is Will,” the voice began, but was nearly unrecognizable as the cocky son of a bitch Emma was _used_ to hearing. There was no bite to his words, no sarcasm, no groundless (excessive) confidence. If she weren’t mistaken, he almost sounded _human_.

“Will Scarlett?” she asked, still unsure how this very insecure man could be the thorn in her side _asshole_ she was so used to hearing through the wall.

“No, Will Smith. Of course it’s bloody Will Scarlett. Do many people call you with both my name _and_ accent?” Oh, look. The asshole was back.

“Damn, I was hoping to get my copy of Independence Day signed. Now what the fuck do _you_ want?” Emma knew it had to be serious for him to call her _four_ times, but you know what? Sometimes you just can’t help but snark off to snarky jerks.

“Well, love, I actually need your help. I tried Killian but he’s offshore on romance duty and he assured me that if I didn’t say anything too nasty you’d be willing to help.”

Killian was always making promises he couldn’t exactly keep. But there was still something sweet about him offering her assistance to Will. It’s not that she didn’t know he trusted her and valued her, but the way he so easily blended himself into her life (by becoming so close with Ruby) _and_ put her into his – every day she felt more like she finally had a _family_. And that was enough to dull her prickly edges for the moment.

“What did you do, Scarlett?”

“I’m just meself apparently,” he grumbled, the discouragement and defeat dripping from his words.

“Well, yes, that _can_ be a problem. But before I can do anything, I’m going to need some info. So spill.”

The explanation started out a little rocky. Something about Emma being nice and strong and knowing women who were like that and how if Killian could get her then maybe Will actually had a chance with someone who wasn’t practically an evil queen. At Emma’s urging of _get on with it, please_ , Will finally spilled the meat of it: he’d met Emma’s friend _Belle_ (a cop) and was immediately entranced by her. He’d tried every line in the book and _nothing_ had grabbed her attention. So when he finally just tried the honest heart-on-the-sleeve move of saying he liked her and wanted to see her again, he was hoping for better results.

But no, Belle had informed him that she knew all of his moves and what he was like, not only because she could tell the _kind_ of man he was from his near abhorrent behavior, but because she literally knew the things he’d said to one of her favorite people in the world (a.k.a. Emma). Belle and Emma weren’t the closest by any means, but they certainly had deep mutual respect for one another and Emma couldn’t _imagine_ how she’d think of a man who’d treated Belle the way Will had treated _her_. So it’s not like Belle was overreacting by any means.

“She’s not wrong,” was all Emma managed at first.

“I know she’s not wrong. But what can I do? I haven’t – it’s been a very long time since I felt anything like this. I don’t even _like_ books, but I could listen to her talk about her favorite authors for hours, I swear. And you know that I feel like a wimpy little bitch for admitting this to you, so for god’s sake just be the bigger person here and _help me_.”

And now Will was the one who wasn’t wrong. She knew how extremely vulnerable he’d made himself, admitting such things that went directly against the way he viewed himself. And the world. So she decided to _be the bigger person_ after all, and help Scarlett get a little less cranky.

“Step one is going to be trying to prove you’re not _a complete dick_ ,” Emma started, trying her best to sound raw and honest rather than _harsh_. “Belle has known some heavily guarded people – myself included – who often behave a certain way because of their past or their fears or another of those equally _wimpy_ things like you’re feeling now. You can’t take back _behaving_ like a dick. But you can prove that’s not _who you are_.”

“How? And don’t say I’m supposed to show up at her place with a blue French horn or a boom box or something else. Because those douchebags would have had the cops called on them in real life, and I’m too pretty for the slammer.”

Well, at least he had a slight sense of humor, anyway. “No, I’m talking something less stalkery and over the-top. Something as simple as hanging out in public in a group and simply enjoying yourself amongst friends – while appreciating her own enjoyment also.”

“How in the bloody hell is _that_ going to work, Emma? How can she give me a chance if she’s going to be blabbering to other random people all night?”

“Oh, for god’s sake. You’re so selfish! I’m trying to help you here, OK. These things don’t go from _I hate to_ to _oh my god you’re my prince charming_ in one evening. You need to be her _friend_. And show her how you treat your _other friends_ , too. So she can see that you have an actual beating heart in there, and you’re not just faking nice to _her_ to get in her pants and bolt. You were right. She and I are somewhat similar. And Killian never would have gotten a chance with me if he hadn’t been a good person first. You gotta start slow. Otherwise you’ll be nothing but a womanizing, manipulative tool.”

Will was silent for the span of a few breaths as Emma waited for a reaction. He wasn’t going to _love_ that this wasn’t some easy fix. But she could have set him up for failure. She could have suggested he do exactly what Belle _wouldn’t_ want, just to get him back for being a dick to her. But she respected Belle – a strong ass woman who’d been wronged in a big way and could use a charming, exciting guy. And Will was important to Killian, who was important to Emmma. So by transitive property, Will was important to _her_. So she’d help him take the longer path that might actually result in some happiness.

“Will you come with?” he asked so quietly she almost made him repeat himself.

“Yes, of course. I’ll call Mary Margaret and David and Regina and Robin. If Ruby doesn’t have other plans, I’ll bring her, too. You call Belle. Provided she actually gave you her contact information?”

“Killian did. I don’t know how he got it.”

“Me, duh. Now call or send her a text – whicher you’re more comfortable with. Make sure to apologize for making a poor first impression (which you _did_ ) and then be very clear that you’re asking her to hang out with a group of people. We’ll head to the Rabbit Hole around, I don’t know, 8? Even if she can’t come, we could all use a break, don’t you think?”

Will’s sigh of relief was so deep she could practically feel his breath through the phone. “You’re a lifesaver, Emma. I really am sorry about judging you so quickly. Bitterness does that to a guy.”

“I get it, Will. I genuinely do. But here’s the only warning I’m giving you: if you hurt Belle – or say anything heinous to _me_ ever again – you’re going to wake up missing an appendage. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. See you tonight.” The line went dead and Emma chuckled to herself. Who’d have thought she’d go out with Will Scarlett before Killian? He was going to _love_ this one.

Emma shot Killian a text warning him that if he didn’t get himself to the bar tonight once he was done being the _proposal concierge_ , she might end up choosing Will over him.

Killian: That would be a cold day in Hell. Though actually I’m already IN a cold day in hell. I’ll fill you in later. For now I have to do some damage control.

Emma: Jesus, did you knock the ring off the boat or something? #badform

Killian: It’s bad. I’ll text you once I get closer to shore.

It wasn’t a good sign that he was on his way back already – generally the romantic sunset style ventures that included food were schedule to last well into the darkness (stargazing was _oh so romantic_ and all). But the sun was _just then setting_. God, the dude must not have even gotten the chance to _propose_.

But Emma couldn’t focus on that too much for now. She had calls to make and should probably make herself look at least _kind of_ hot (especially if Killian would be joining them eventually).

Oh, what a surprise this night was turning into.

-

Maybe if Killian started running back and forth across his ship – back and forth, back and forth – it would tip over and bob a little and then get sucked into Davy Jones’ locker where he’d never have to feel this fucking awkward ever again because he’d be among the land of the dead.

And dead seemed better than _witness to the world’s fastest attempted-proposal-turned-breakup_.

Sure he was being hyperbolic. But he just _assumed_ that when Benny had called him about this whole _I want to propose on your ship_ thing, he’d actually been confident Billie would say _yes_.

Nope. Turns out they’d only been together four months. And on top of that, Billie had been mourning the loss of her previous boyfriend who was practically locked away in another dimension – also known as _permanently in a coma after a fucking plane wreck_. But Benny was apparently _so_ head over heels for the blonde sassy goddess, that he thought laying it all on the table and pulling a modified Ted Mosby was the way to her heart.

It wasn’t.

She’d been enjoying herself – she really had. It’s not as if she was disgusted by the man or something. They were happy. They were sweet. They laughed and enjoyed the view, the food, even some of Killian’s sailing stories. He actually had treated them to a Wall Street disaster story after the two of them mentioned one of Benny’s clients losing everything to a crooked investor.

But once the sun was getting low on the water and Killian gave them their space, he could sense there was some tension. He must have started in on _the speech_ and Billie knew what was coming. Based on body language and hand gestures, she tried to stop him before he got on his knee, but he steamrolled right through. Killian couldn’t hear _everything_ but there was a “are you fucking kidding me” in there and a “how could you be this delusional” from her, followed by a “what the hell do you want from me” from him.

From there it only got worse. They fought. And they fought _hard_. It was like everything they’d apparently not said to each other in the last 120 days just came spilling out with venom. Billie started crying first, followed by Benny. And neither of them had _told_ Killian to change course yet, so they were still just gently floating even further out to sea.

Where one of them was probably going to dump the other’s body.

(Mental note: check if that’s covered on his insurance policy or if he needs to start doing relationship evaluations himself before he allows unstable couples onto his ship.)

Finally Benny approached him and asked him to get them back to the shore ASAP. Unfortunately the winds were _against_ them, so it wasn’t exactly going to be a quick journey.

And that’s when his phone lit up with his favorite name in the world, joking with him like he wasn’t wishing he could just abandon his own ship to escape the discomfort.

He knew that pointing Will in her direction was the right decision. For as tough as Emma could be, she really wanted nothing more than for everyone to get their happy endings. Douchebags included. So he was glad that the whole crew of them was going out that night.

And even gladder that he would hopefully be able to join them.

What ever would Emma choose to wear that night? Something torturous on him, he was certain.

-

They were making Trivia Night their _bitch_.

Between Belle’s knowledge of the law and all things _fiction_ , Will’s sports acumen, Robin’s hunting skills, and Emma and Regina’s random facts they seemed to know and couldn’t really attribute to anything, their team was winning by so much half of the participants had literally given up.

Mary Margaret, David, Ruby, and a few of Ruby’s friends were still holding on but were nowhere near winning – yet they were excessively trash talking Emma’s team (with jokes no more sophisticated than _your mama is so fat when she sits around the house, she sits AROUND it_ ).

They’d all drank a _lot_ considering they’d only been there for an hour, and it had been quite a while since she’d actually been what you’d call _drunk_. And the last time had been at a _wake_ and that’s just not the greatest kind of drunk to be – sad and clumsy and throwing yourself at your best friend.

Oh, _god_ , how she wanted to throw herself at him tonight. At least it wouldn’t be so inappropriate this time. And certainly not in Regina’s bathroom.

(Not the bar bathroom, either. She had _standards_ , ok?)

When the trivia game was over, their team used the winnings to buy a round for everyone who played until the end and then made their way to the dance floor. Belle was actually _smiling_ and Will was behaving like an actual person and not a walking pick-up line generator. Mary Margaret and David were so happy to see her that they did a double-bear-hug-lift on her when they saw her, chatting her ear off about everything that was going on with them and asking her to spill about Killian.

“Tell me more tell me more, did ya get very far?” David sang, clinking his beer bottle against Mary Margaret’s.

(That man could _not_ hold his alcohol.)

“Dave, are you really singing _Grease_? I’m disappointed,” Robin admonished. “I pegged you as more of a RENT kind of guy.”

Ruby laughed and started to sing about all the minutes in a year when Regina clamped her hand over her mouth. “No, dear, let’s listen to Kesha sing. It’s time for heavy beats and weird electronic noise, not show tunes.”

“Don’t sound so enthused, your Majesty.”

Ruby and Regina weren’t the friendliest together, but they were managing a lot better now that they seemed to have agreed upon a _who can be more sarcastic_ game that never ended.

(Regina would win, to be certain, but it was nice the two of them had bonded over _something_.)

Emma laughed at them all and encouraged them to dance – making sure Will was near Belle without being to _handsy_. Ruby, of course, was getting handsy with _everyone_ (including all the boyfriends _and_ their girls), but they just kept giggling and trying to shout along to the meaningless pop. It was _fun_.

But a song that came on sounded suspiciously like Pirates of the Caribbean and Emma thought of Killian and realized she never even asked him what was so terrible about the excursion. He should be done soon, right? Probably.

She muttered some apologies to her dancing friends and stumbled off the dance floor, plopping her rum and pineapple juice on a bench and snagging her phone out from between her boobs.

(Yes, she’s _that_ classy.)

Emma lit up her phone and saw no fewer than 15 new message notifications, all of them from Killian.

**Killian** : ALERT! She said no.

**Killian** : Seriously, the girl refused to marry him and now they’re fighting.

**Killian** : They’re still fighting.

**Killian** : Now they’re ignoring each other.

**Killian** : Shit, the girl is pulling a Rose. Should I go stop her?

**Killian** : God I wish this thing was a speedboat.

**Killian** : Swaaaaaaan stop having fun when I’m dying of awkward.

**Killian** : The guy just tried to get her to reconsider.

**Killian** : Now she said the only thing she’ll be signing is a restraining order. Does the victim even sign a restraining order? I don’t know how those kinds of things work.

**Killian** : That’s it. I’m swimming ashore. Goodbye, love. I’ll see you on the other side.

**Killian** : Just kidding but seriously I’m never doing this again.

Emma laughed and read through the last few messages, each just photos of things on his ship he was looking at rather than paying any further attention to the _not-a-couple-anymore_ still aboard his ship.

**Killian** : My, my, this stain by the helm is SO INTERESTING

Emma’s brain was fuzzy with the alcohol but her chest was warm from far more that libation. She was happy – her little makeshift family surrounding her, a wonderful man looking forward to seeing her in all her tight-dress glory.

How was she so lucky as to find this guy? Oh, right. She’d settled for a shitty apartment.

(See, maybe she _had_ built up some good karma after all.)

**Emma** : I miss you

Those three little dots popped up immediately – Killian was probably massively relieved that he was finally receiving a response to his 45-minute stream of distress.

But the message was fairly short.

**Killian** : I always miss you

Emma’s cheeks were already rosy, but she could feel them heat up just a smidge more.

**Emma** : I’m usually ten feet away from you.

**Killian** : That’s still too far.

**Emma** : You’re cheesy.

**Killian** : The cheesiest, darling.

**Emma** : Will I see you in a few minutes? You have to be close to shore by now.

Killian’s response was taking too long to long type to be _fuck yes I’ll see you in five_ and Emma’s good mood started to deflate just a bit.

**Killian** : Actually, I’m already ON shore. Billie called her friend to come get her and Benny won’t stop crying. So I’m apparently on Haagen-Dazs duty with this near-stranger. I’m so sorry love. I’d looked forward to dancing with you and pulling you into a dark corner and being very, very bad. But I can’t just LEAVE this guy…

It should disappoint her that _once fucking again_ she wasn’t going to get any time with her pirate. She was buzzed (drunk) and feeling good, desperately wanting his eyes and hands all over her.

But the very comforting truth was that he was a _decent human being_ who didn’t want another human being to suffer. At least not _alone_.

So she wished him well and told him he owed her one (or two or three). She locked her phone and headed back out to the dance floor, her long blonde hair bouncing as she swayed into Mary Margaret and Belle, blinding smiles on all their faces as they laughed and danced and shouted the night away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the couple on Killian's ship were named Benny and Billie because on tumblr their characters were played by my Funko Pop Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes in the header photo HAHAHA


	15. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third update in a week? Yep! This one features Drunk Emma and, as the title would suggest, some changes coming for our lovely apartment-dwellers.

When last call came and Killian still hadn’t shown, Emma was a little bit sad. OK, so maybe _inconsolable_ was the word.

(Repeat after me: _tequila shots are always a bad idea_.)

“But can’t you call him again, Mary Margaret? I don’t wanna take a cab. Killian will come get meeeeee.”

“Emma, I know you want him to, but I think he’s still with the jilted ex boyfriend man. Remember how you said you were happy he was such a good guy? Well he’s out being a good guy.”

Emma was stumbling a bit and slurring her words, most likely, her vision fuzzy and her eyes glazed over with liquor. It had been a good night. A really good night. So good, in fact, that she forgot to tell herself when to _stop_.

Damn, she’d regret this in the morning. Somewhere deep down it’s like she _knew_ what she must sound like right now. She knew it was ridiculous and she should just get her ass home and sleep it off.

But she wanted to see Killian so desperately it _hurt_.

(Feelings were the worst. Well, _second_ worst to alcohol, anyway.)

Mary Margaret and David coaxed her toward the yellow cab that had pulled up for them outside the Rabbit Hole, each of them holding up at least 25% of her body weight as they exchanged eye rolls across her shoulders. It had been _ages_ since she’d went and gotten _this_ plastered, but her friends seemed surprisingly OK with it.

(Good nights do tend to make people a bit more forgiving.)

She sat between the two of them in the cab, David holding her phone captive while Mary Margaret stroked her now very messy hair. It was comforting to be so taken care of when the world was spinning and her brain was short circuiting and nothing really seemed to matter but _right this very second_.

Mary Margaret had assured her she’d sit in the cab while David helped Emma into bed, but as the cab pulled up to Emma’s front stoop, there was a dashing rapscallion leaned expectantly against the brick building.

David nudged Emma’s shoulder and pointed out the window as the car rolled to a stop and suddenly she was _squealing_. “Killian! He’s OK. Look, David, it’s Killian! He’s my neighbor. I love him. He helped Benny tonight when Benny got shot down. I’d never shoot him down though.”

Stop the word vomit. _Stop the word vomit_ , the rational part of her brain tried to scream.

“Not that he’s going to – not that I would… just – I didn’t say any of that, OK?”

David and Mary Margaret shared a little glance and some more eye rolling before they returned Emma her belongings and wished her a good night. Mary Margaret had shouted something about “be safe” while David had made a comment about the likelihood Emma would get physically sick on Killian’s person, but Emma chose to ignore those remarks and just go see her very favorite human.

“Killian! You’re here!”

He chuckled, but outstretched his arms. “Well of course, darling. I do _live_ here.”

Some part of her was aware that Ruby wasn’t with her, but she had no recollection of at what point she lost track of her or where she might have gone. The last thing she remembered was clinking glasses as they sang along to a Carrie Underwood song and threatened Whale’s life (well, his car anyway).

But before she could ask him if Ruby had come back home before her, he started asking her about her night and ushering her to her apartment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, Swan, but Benny is going to survive. Finally. We had a nice, long talk about not holding on to the _wrong_ people. How was your evening? Do you even remember it?”

Apparently her stumbling wasn’t a subtle as she was trying to make it, but she was OK.

(He’d catch her.)

She told him about the trivia winnings and the dancing and how well Will was doing at not being a _dick_. She was gushing anecdotes that probably didn’t make sense, and she was practically out of breath by the time Killian reached in her wristlet and pulled out the key to her apartment, opening the door and guiding her through (straight to her bed).

She plopped down, swaying into him – a little because she was so drunkenly discombobulated, but mostly because she just craved his _closeness_. “I missed you though.”

He put his hand on her thigh and lifted his chin so she could tuck her head into his neck. Her hair was getting caught in his stubble and the arch of her back wasn’t the most comfortable, but somehow she still felt like she was breathing clean air for the first time in ages.

“So you indicated earlier. You know, when you actually had your wits about you.” Killian chuckled and it shook the both of them, her stomach feeling just the tiniest bit queasy.

“Are you accusing me of being touchy only because I’m drunk?” She mumbled, burying her nose deeper into his neck (thus only really proving his point, probably, but she really didn’t give a fuck when his arms were around her).

“No, love, I’m actually saying that I trust that’s _not_ the only reason. If I thought your affection was alcohol-induced, I certainly wouldn’t still be here.”

He squeezed her tighter and her stomach lurched (again), and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be horizontal.

But she desperately didn’t want him to leave.

She sat up straighter and stood slowly from the bed, earning her a very confused look from Killian. “It’s about my bedtime,” she announced as she steadied herself. “Care to have a sleepover?”

“It would be my pleasure. Though, perhaps we’ll keep our clothes on this time? I’m not sure I want Ruby to get a second look at the family jewels.” He winked – she thought? Things were starting to get a bit fuzzy – and she shucked off her dress in response, turning her back to toss her bra to the side and throw a tank top on in its place.

“Not _all_ our clothes though, right?” Emma tried to look seductive, but probably came off a little more like a loon as she shuffled into the bathroom half dressed.

Chug water? Check. Brush teeth? Check. Wipe off makeup? Eh, maybe tomorrow. She didn’t look _that_ much like the Joker.

When she walked back into her bedroom, Killian was lying comfortably on the far side of the bed, the covers pulled up just enough that she could see he was wearing his boxers (and nothing else). For the first time she noticed some soreness in her thighs – damn, it really had been too long since she did any kind of exercise beyond chasing perps – but she figured that was _tomorrow Emma_ ’s problem. _Tonight_ _Emma_ was going to curl up at Killian’s side, try her very best not to throw up on him, and just enjoy her very rare quiet moment with the man who was slowly but thoroughly taking ownership of her heart.

-

The room was too damn hot. He hadn’t thought to turn Emma’s air conditioning on the night before and there was no way he was leaving Emma’s side now. Even if there was a thin sheen of sweat covering his whole body, even if Emma’s hair was stuck to his face and the arm wrapped around her side was looking like the inside of a medium-rare steak. They’d had so few moments to just _be_ , and he quite frankly didn’t care that the longest among them happened to be when one or both of them was unconscious.

She’d been so happy to see him the night before. No matter what happened from here – even if she cut and ran, broke his heart into a thousand shards of glass – no one could ever take that moment away from him. The pure joy in her face – he knew that judging drunk reactions wasn’t the smartest thing, but for once her walls were down. The unfortunate realities of adulthood weren’t weighing on her. For one glorious moment, Killian got a little preview of what his life could be like with her – you know if he ever got the chance to actually _be_ with her.

“Why’s it so hooooot,” Emma mumbled into her pillow, shifting her body even _closer_ to his despite the heat.

“Oh, you know, these are the dangers of sleeping with the hottest man in the country. Things get a little sweaty,” Killian joked, reaching up to brush a few sweat-soaked strands of her hair out of her face.

“I feel like a bus hit me.”

“Well, you never mentioned a bus in your recounting of last night’s events. So I think it’s probably just the rum. And the tequila. And god knows what else. Care for some breakfast?” Killian kissed the back of her head and went to sit up, but Emma reached her arm behind her and pulled him back down.

“I can’t even think of food. Can you just… go turn on the air conditioner and then lay back down with me? I’d like a chance to talk to you when I actually know what I’m saying.”

“Oh I think you knew exactly what you were saying last night,” he called as he scooted out of the bedroom and to the large window AC unit in her living room.

“Hey, now. I wasn’t so drunk I don’t remember. So don’t start making up scandalous things that I supposedly said or did. It won’t work on me, buddy.”

When he made it back to the bedroom, Emma was sprawled out and fanning herself with a piece of paper she’d picked up from the floor. It was adorable, of course, but the last thing Killian wanted was for them to start associating each other with massive _discomfort_. “Are you sure we should seize this cuddle time? It’s not exactly the most opportune moment.”

“No, but it’s been our _only_ moment so far. And I’m getting impatient to have time with you. So please, come sweat with me.” Emma patted the bed and rolled her eyes, and for just a second Killian wondered if perhaps he were still sleeping.

It really wasn’t that long ago, after all, that she was nothing but the silence next door. And then the yelling _at_ his door. And then a begrudging acquaintance through the wall. And now they were on the same side of the wall, lying in the same bed, just enjoying their time together.

He really never thought he’d have this again. Not that she was something he _had_. But this moment, these easy snuggles and sweet smiles (and, if Emma’s hangover wasn’t too much for her, hopefully a kiss or two).

Killian lay back down with Emma, keeping their bodies apart aside from their entwined hands, and let his eyes fall back closed, her thumb on the back of his hand grounding him more than any anchor ever has (holy _fuck_ , he’s got to rein in the cheesiness or Emma was going to dump his ass) (if she ever agreed to date him, that is).

“So. How’s Benny?”

The two of them spent the next half hour going over the finer points of their evenings – the highs and the lows – both of them regretful that they missed out on the experience of the other. Killian was particularly jealous he missed out on Emma’s dancing, but she promised a repeat performance someday. And as for the deep discomfort of watching Billie and Benny implode? Killian appreciated Emma’s wanting to have been there for him, but he was pretty sure it only would have been _worse_ if there were a happy _not-a-couple-yet_ juxtaposed with the unhappy _not-a-couple-anymore_.

Their conversation was easy and Killian was truly ashamed that it wasn’t until Ruby burst through Emma’s door that he realized she hadn’t come home the night before at all (even the best guys could be selfish jerks).

“My eyes are closed! My eyes are closed! Please make yourselves decent, lovers!” Ruby shouted, her arms waiving animatedly in the air as she crossed the threshold of the bedroom.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Ruby, we’re not naked. It was _one fucking time_!” Emma grunted – clearly rolling her eyes even though her lids were closed.

“One time I’ll never be able to burn out of my brain no matter how much tequila you make me drink. Speaking of, how are you feeling this morning, sunshine?”

“Oh, the sunniest.” The air conditioning had cooled the room significantly and Emma finally curled her body fully back into Killian’s, his heart warming at her completely unashamed nuzzling despite their (critical) audience.

“And where have _you_ been, young lady?” Killian chastised, rubbing Emma’s likely throbbing temples.

“Sorry, _dad_ , I figured the lovebirds would be happy to have some alone time. Well, not that you could have enjoyed it much. Emma couldn’t walk, let alone fu – ”

“Ruby!” Emma squealed, chucking the closest object to them – a remote control – at her head. With scary accuracy, he might add. “Just answer him.”

“Well your not-girlfriend got me drunk enough that I called Victor. Which actually turned out to be the best thing I could have done because as it turns out I’m the world’s biggest _ass_.”

“I’ll concede that you _have_ a nice ass, but you were totally justified, Ruby! Don’t let him make you feel like it’s your fault he’s a cheater.” Emma’s tone was raging. She was fiercely loyal to her friends and violently defensive of them and for that Killian had nothing but respect.

“But he’s _not_ a cheater. I let myself get so caught up in my own worries, in my past and my (unfair) assumptions. I get it. I was just scared. And he needs to work on his damn communication. But it’s not – he wasn’t off with another woman or something.” Ruby took a breath, shaking her head as Emma’s expression morphed even further into concern for her friend.

“He’s been offered a job. It’s a really _good_ one. He’d be working with the man who treated and saved his brother years ago. So he’s had meetings with him and has been looking for apartents and trying to work out the logistics.”

“So why wouldn’t he just _tell_ you this?” Emma was sitting up now, her fingernails gently (but somewhat painfully) digging into Killian’s leg.

“Because the job is in _Seattle_. He didn’t want me to panic and think he was leaving me, but he also didn’t want me to panic that he was just assuming I’d uproot my life for him.”

Emma scoffed. “What, is he going to work for Seattle Grace with Derek Shepherd?”

“If you actually watched that show, you’d know it’s no longer called that and he’s no longer a character. Spoiler alert. But no, it’s very real. And after a very drunk, tearful conversation last night and a hungover even _more_ tearful conversation this morning, I’ve decided… that I’m going with him.”

“You’re – you’re leaving?” Emma’s voice sounded so… small. Killian took her hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing lightly as Emma’s fingers began to tremble slightly.

Killian was having a hard time looking at a future without Ruby in _his_ life. He couldn’t imagine how Emma was feeling. They’d become a sort of little family unit, like a group of Lost Boys who’d found pixie dust in the form of a shitty, tiny-ass apartment.

And now that was being ripped away.

“I know, sweetie. It’s not the best situation. But I’ll visit! And you’ll visit. And there’s Skype and FaceTime and text messaging. We can even write old-fashioned letters if it would make you feel better. But I – I have to give this a chance. You were right, Emma. He’s made me _stronger_. Better. I’m willing to take that leap, even though it’s scary as fuck.”

Emma was mostly speechless, so Killian filled the tense silence. “Ruby, I’m so happy for you both. I’m also happy that Emma and I don’t have to murder Whale – we were watching some Bones & Castle to try to do some research on how to properly hide a body.”

Ruby laughed and they chatted a little about the logistics Whale had been working on – he’d secured an apartment near the hospital with plenty of space for Ruby to have a home office. She wasn’t excited about all the rain, but she’d always wanted to take a ferry somewhere. It was just another adventure, she said. One that she’d hopefully _love_. But even if she didn’t, it would be worth it.

They were silent again for the span of a few breaths when Emma launched herself off the bed and flung herself into Ruby’s arms with so much force she knocked her backward (and probably caused a bruise or two). “I’m so happy for you, Ruby. But I’m going to _miss you_.”

Killian let the two of them have their moment – until that one moment turned into several and he broke the somber mood by jumping off the bed and joining their embrace, encircling them both and squeezing so hard both of them let out shrill squeaks. “Don’t leave me out of this!” he complained, rocking the girls back and forth as they finally started chuckling.

-

Emma was torn between ecstatic and devastated.

Ruby was her best friend. Well maybe her _second_ best friend? But her _best_ best friend that she didn’t also want to fuck And probably marry. Maybe. If she were allowing herself to be hyperbolic (kind of).

She was the one who dragged her out of her own head, who made her a _person_ again after suffering so much tragedy. Sure, Mary Margaret and David had been her steady support system, the people who would always make sure she would survive. But Ruby – she’d taught her to _thrive_ again. To live, to love, to take a chance.

Take a chance.

That’s what Emma was chanting to herself as she dragged her now showered, rested, and well-fed ass down the hall and to the front door of the best friend she _did_ want to fuck. Killian had given Emma and Ruby some space to just reminisce and have some quiet alone time before Ruby was meeting Mary Margaret for coffee to break _her_ the exciting/terrifying news.

Before Ruby had left, she’d hugged Emma and muttered something like “for once I’m being a role model – why don’t you try taking my lead?” She kissed Emma’s cheek and tossed a wink over her shoulder as she closed Emma’s door behind her, leaving Emma alone to deal with the very scary prospect of taking a chance on the annoying Brit next door.

(She knew it wasn’t really all that _risky_. He was going to say yes. But that wasn’t the part that concerned her. She wasn’t terrified of rejection; she was terrified of losing her best friend, her neighbor, her favorite person on the planet, all because she’d most likely fuck it up.

Take a chance. Take a chance. _Take this chance_. She repeated it over and over (hopefully in her head, though she wouldn’t rule out the possibility she was muttering it aloud).

She’d practiced a little speech – a sort of cutesy acknowledgment of their mutual attraction and her own desire to, like Ruby, take a chance.

But when she knocked three times and he opened the door, his fingers running through his wet, tousled hair, his blue eyes practically glowing, his dimples and eye crinkles constricting her poor heart which was trying to beat out of her chest – well, all her practice just… disappeared.

“Go out with me.”

She’d intended it to come out as a question, but her tone was all _demand_. She cringed a little at her error, but Killian just let out a sigh (of relief, she hoped) and picked up the _question_ ball she’d clearly dropped.

“When?”

“Is tonight too soon?”

“Love, _last night_ wouldn’t have been too soon.”

She smiled a little and surged forward, dropping the briefest kiss on his still-smiling lips. “Perfect.”

And it actually felt like it very well might be.


	16. The Date

She really hadn’t thought this through.

The last time she’d gone on a proper date was probably… well, _never_.

Which should be a horrifying thing to realize. _Especially_ at her age. But it wasn’t exactly her fault life had royally fucked her over so bad that she never even bothered to spend a nice evening with a man she actually _knew_ or intended to _see again_.

Was it totally shit luck or was it winning the lottery that the first guy she actually gave a chance to might actually be _the_ guy?

Even _thinking_ something that ridiculous had her blushing and internally slapping herself. He was her _best friend_ not her happily ever after (though she swears she read in a book once that those could be one in the same).

It was purely embarrassing that she couldn’t figure out what the hell she should wear. And even worse that she couldn’t groan or whine or scream in frustration without her date literally hearing it through the wall – and possibly (probably) bursting through her door worried that something was terribly wrong.

Something other than panic and self-doubt, of course.

She had about an hour before Killian was “picking her up” from her apartment and they were headed to a lovely dinner within walking distance. From there, they were going to spend some time on Killian’s ship, blissfully alone (for once).

_Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock. Knock. Knock._ Emma banged on her bedroom wall, signaling to Killian she had a question (he hadn’t said if they’d actually be _sailing_ that night or just sitting on the boat. It was a very important question when it came to the styling of her hair).

But there was no answer. In fact, she didn’t hear a single sound coming from the other side of the wall. She knocked harder – and nothing. So she scooped up her phone and tapped out a quick message.

**Emma** : Where the hell are you? Are you bailing on our date? Because that would be rude.

**Killian** : Of course I’m not bailing. Are you kidding me? I’m just running some… errands.

Errands. Hmmm.

**Emma** : Well, I’m having a wardrobe crisis. How much wind should I expect tonight?

**Killian** : I wasn’t planning on leaving the marina, but it’s supposed to be fairly breezy. If you’re worried about having a Marilyn Monroe moment, well let’s just say I wouldn’t hate it ;)

Of _course_ that’s where he would go, making it dirty somehow.

Then again, he did have a knack for reading her mood and responding in exactly the way that would calm her, make her laugh, get her out of her own head. And there’d always been something oddly comforting about Killian’s oh-so-predictable innuendos.

**Emma** : I think you’ve seen enough without any kind of wardrobe malfunction to blame, mister. See you soon?

**Killian** : Wouldn’t miss it.

Well, he put her at ease – just a little – but he wasn’t really much _help_. So Emma figured her best bet was to reach out to her _gal pals_ in usual rom-com-style and complete some sort of pop music montage to her trying on obnoxious outfits.

But no such luck. In traditional Ruby fashion, her advice was something to the effect of _skip the restaurant; skip the clothes_. And Mary Margaret was equally predictable: _just make yourself comfortable. Killian will love you in anything_. Emma went so far as to send a text to David separately, asking his male opinion, but he echoed Mary Margaret’s sentiments (just with a different flavor): _last night your makeup was smeared, your dress was covered in my wife’s spit-out shot, and your hair looked like there was a bird nest in it. And he STILL looked at you like you were Mila Kunis in GQ. I vote wear your sweatpants. He won’t care._

**Emma** : What a charming answer, David. [line of eye roll emojis for good measure]

Emma settled on a flowing pink dress she’d bought two years before and had never worn (adding a pair of spandex shorts underneath – she might not mind _Killian_ seeing her cheeky boy short underwear if the wind kicked up, but she wasn’t about to let any random passersby see, too). She put her hair in a high ponytail, neatly curling the ends, and applied only a small amount of makeup (mascara to highlight her eyes and a pop of glossy color on her lips).

She got ready a little too fast, as it turned out. Killian wasn’t even back to the apartment yet, and there she stood, all done up and ready for the most long-awaited date in the history of the universe (OK, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s what it felt like, all right?).

So she perched herself on a stool (so as to not wrinkle the dress) and pinned some recipes she’d never make, watched some TV clips from shows she didn’t follow, and even read some movie reviews for the upcoming DC disaster – anything to keep her mind off panicking until –

_Knock, knock_.

-

He needed to knock on the fucking door. But he also needed to get himself _under control_. His palms were sweating so bad that the rose in his left hand was one muscle twitch from sliding right out of his grasp. His breath was erratic, his knees were shaking, and he was _anything_ but the over-confident badass he tried to project on his better days.

Because _this_ – this was important. This was Emma, finally opening up. Well, _fully_ opening up anyway. This was his possibly one and only chance to catch her attention, to show her that love wasn’t a thing to fear, to prove that their friendship could become something fantastically more – all without ruining a damn thing.

She was scared, though. He knew that. And right now she was feeling good and hopeful so the night would probably go well; however, he was already worrying about the rough patches to come. What could he do to put her so at ease now that when they inevitably hit a bump in the road, she doesn’t bolt?

Well, knocking on the fucking door and picking her up for their date _on time_ was probably the first step to that.

So he did and she opened it, so fast she had to have been standing just about _in_ the door before he even knocked.

(At least he wasn’t the only one who seemed to have a case of the nerves.)

But as soon as he saw her, everything just… went calm. She was dressed beautifully, of course, but it didn’t take his breath away any more than usual. It was _her_ and she _always_ took his breath away (mostly metaphorically). So while he’d intended to bow like a (theatrical) gentleman, pass her the singular rose, and compare her visage to a summer’s day – the glowing smile on her face overwhelmed him into succumbing to his need to just _feel_ her.

He stepped closer to her – always begging permission, of course – tentatively reaching his right hand to trail down her cheek. “You know, love, we always seem to get distracted or barged in on or _drunk_. And while I _should_ save this for the end of the night, I’m feeling like – ”

But Emma cut him off. “Oh, for god’s sake, just kiss me,” she demanded, surging forward herself to catch his lips with hers. Her kisses were hungry, desperate caresses, completely impossible combinations of feeling that he simply would never get enough of. His fingers tightened against her cheek, his thumb grazing against her little chin dimple as Emma’s hand caught his, lacing their fingers together at their side as she swiped her tongue against his bottom lip and giggled the absolute most adorable and alluring laugh that he’d ever heard in his life. The hand that was holding the rose wrapped around her back and she arched against him, pushing her body into his so that there was no space between them, so that you couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

It wasn’t until he _dropped_ the rose that the spell was broken and Killian remembered he should probably be using his mouth for _words_ and not for kissing the life out of her before they even left their apartment building.

“What the hell?!” she squealed as the rose grazed the back of her calf – she’d clearly been so enthralled with his face she hadn’t noticed that he’d brought her a present (and then practically _threw_ it at her in his moment of passion). He quickly bent down and scooped up the flower (now a few petals missing but no less beautiful).

“For you, my love.”

“Oh, thank _god_. I thought there was a bug on me or something. And then I was going to have to not only leave the building but also burn it down. Which wouldn’t be great for our date. Or our living quarters. So,” she paused, taking the rose from him. “Thank you. Now, just let me…” she nodded toward the kitchen, shuffling that way to get a vase for the little flower. He’d honestly expected her to simply toss the thing aside, but her desire to preserve it, keep it safe – it was enough for him to yank him straight back into his arms the _second_ the stem was submerged in water.

“What’s this for?” she mumbled against his lips, drawing back for some breath without actually pulling _away_ from him.

“Making up for lost time, of course.” He dropped a few more brief kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her neck, before standing straight and jutting his elbow toward her. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

-

The restaurant was _delicious_. Not buffalo chicken pizza delicious or even grilled cheese and hot chocolate delicious – no, it was the fancy kind, the kind where you honestly had no idea what the hell you were putting in your mouth but you didn’t even care because it was So. Fucking. Good.

Her expressions and audible reactions were probably bordering on obscene, but whatever. They were in a fairly secluded corner and Killian probably didn’t mind if his blown pupils and slack-jawed, dumbfounded stare were any indication.

“Could you control yourself, please, love?” he gritted out, biting down on his fork.

“I don’t know. I think you’d very much like it if I let myself lose control.”

“Well obviously, but not _here_.” His frustration was _adorable_ , but it wasn’t exactly _nice_ , so Emma toned down her reactions and enjoy her meal without pulling any _When Harry Met Sally_ nonsense.

Her fear had been that they wouldn’t know how to _be_ around each other now that things were shifting. She’d panicked well before she’d ever asked him out that they’d have nothing to say, that they’d get awkward or weird or too focused on how it could go wrong. And, yeah, she’d also worried that they’d be a little too wrapped up in _I’d rather be eating_ you _than my dinner_. And it’s not that any of those things weren’t valid. She _was_ feeling a little weird – shouldn’t you be talking to someone differently on a date than you would through their apartment wall? – and she certainly would prefer to have _him_ on her tongue than even the most mouth-water un-pronounceable delicacy on the menu.

But those things – they didn’t matter. Or they _did,_ but in the _good_ way. It was amazing to be sharing a romantic meal with a seemingly perfect man – in addition to being able to share silly jokes, heated looks, and a complete and deep understanding of who one another was as a person. There was no fear. It wasn’t like meeting a dude from Tinder (not that she’d ever done that) – she didn’t need Mary Margaret on _make sure I don’t get kidnapped_ standby. It was just a happy, nice, fancy evening that would probably end in several mind-blowing orgasms.

“Care to share, Emma?” Killian’s words pulled her out of her reverie, and she quickly realized she had _zero_ clue what he was even talking about.

So she ventured a guess: “Wanna try the mystery meat?”

His answering chuckle was enough to know she’d guessed wrong. “I was referring to your thoughts. You seem vexed.”

And before she could stop herself, she actually answered honestly. “No, if anything I’m the _opposite_ of that. I mean, this should be weird, I guess. But it’s not. And it should be harder for me to be open and honest with you but it’s _not_. I’m happy and you seem happy and we’re both happy and finally giving this a real chance, and – ” she paused, putting down her fork and reaching for his hand across the table. “Thank you. For coming into my life. And for not giving up on being my friend, even when I probably deserved it.”

“Nonsense, Emma!” He started, practically before she could even finish her last sentence. “You deserve _everything_ , darling.”

He was making her blush and she didn’t feel like coming across like a 16 year-old on her first date, so Emma changed the subject. “Even dessert? I know I’m stuffed and shouldn’t want anything more but that thing that lady over there has on her plate looks _to die for_.”

They shared the cheesecake-y dessert – making an appropriate amount of googly eyes at each other – before Killian took Emma’s hand and led her out of the restaurant, turning not toward his ship, as she assumed they’d be going, but toward the center of town.

“Plans you forgot to share with me, Captain?”

“Oh, I forget _nothing_. I called in a favor. Just you wait.”

Despite her newfound honesty when it came to Killian Jones, Emma was _not_ going to admit how fast her heart was racing, anticipating what would come next.

-

It’s not that Emma had ever specifically indicated she _wanted_ to go to the Botanical Garden or anything. But he figured a woman as beautiful as her deserved an evening surrounded by beauty similar to her own (inside and out).

(Not that he was going to share that rationale with _her_ , who still was moderately likely to bolt at any mention of too serious.)

She was swinging their arms back and forth as they walked, letting him guide her when they got to turns and she didn’t know what came next. The trust she had in him was incredible but her _joy_ – that’s really what had him all twisted up inside. His initial worry at her request for a date was that he wouldn’t come up with anything good enough, fun enough, impressive enough (especially not on such short notice), but then he realized the very same thing that Emma had noted at the restaurant: they just _worked_. They were happy just being together. And while they very well would have been content to sit at one of their apartments watching Netflix and throwing popcorn at each other, the fact was they _deserved_ a unique and special night out.

So fancy dinner, flowers, and wine it was.

(And then the other stuff, obviously, because the way she was licking her lips and running her hand along his thigh at the dinner table left absolutely no question about her intentions – and his were, of course, the same.)

(Now to keep the crises at bay…)

They were about a block away when she recognized the tall glass structure at the opening of the gardens, a place many held receptions, reunions, and educational events.

“I’ve always wanted to go here!” She gasped, her eyes glowing with excitement – before she promptly fell back flat. “Unless we’re not going there in which case that place? Blegh.”

God, she was cute when she was nervous. “Oh, that’s where we’re going. In fact, we have special privileges and everything.”

“Special privileges like picking all the flowers we want? Or a private room for more… _romantic_ activities?”

“Well you’re setting yourself up for disappointment with that one, love. No, we simply have a nice bottle of wine waiting for us next to the pond. We’ll have a lovely view of the sunset and perhaps a glimpse of your namesake or two.”

“What, there’s a Jane Austen heroine serving us drinks? I’m not going to lie – that’s pretty impressive in both time travel _and_ making fictional characters real.”

“Love, I thought you were an orphan. How do you know you were named for – ”

“I don’t. It’s just a coping mechanism. Filling in the blanks that don’t exist. It’s kind of fun. You should try it sometime!” She chuckled before breaking out in a near sprint toward the entrance.

 

The night passed better than he could have possibly anticipated. Almost zero tension, plenty of beautiful sights to behold (in _addition_ to the flowers and plants). Emma was happy and excited, gently holding his hand as he guided her through the exhibits, reading out the Latin names of every organism they passed just to make Emma practically _purr_ with auditory satisfaction (he knew the sound of his voice was attractive to most women, but it really only mattered when it was _her_ ).

“Lilium candidum,” he whispered into her ear, subtly licking her ear lobe as he pulled back. The way her body jumped suggested he sent a chill down her spine, but her sad expression didn’t seem to match the reaction.

“So you’re not a fan of lilies then?” he asked, squeezing her fingers lightly.

“I had a friend named Lily once. But she betrayed me. Like everyone did,” she said, her eyes far off.

“I’m not going to,” he responded simply.

And to his relief, she smiled. “I know.”


	17. F is for... well, you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let the bangpocalpyse begin.

The evening had been beyond magical. The food had been mouthwatering, of course; the flowers had been among the most beautiful organisms she’d ever seen – stock photos and photoshopped calendars included. Killian had snagged a bottle of her favorite wine, a fruity one with hints of raspberry and blackberry – and the aroma of that mixed with the intoxicating scent of the surrounding flowers had been something even Emma’s imagination couldn’t have quite conjured.

The only thing that could have made the whole experience _more_ like a fairy tale was if they’d actually seen the resident swans, but they weren’t quite _that_ lucky.

(Or maybe they were _very_ lucky, as Emma would later find out that swans could be the world’s biggest assholes and were known to attack without warning – and _that_ would have been a massive buzzkill.)

They’d stayed at the Botanical Gardens until they were asked to leave, even the security guy somewhat regretful he had to escort them out – their bliss was positively written on their faces and no, Emma wasn’t the least bit ashamed.

If she’d had to suffer almost three decades of pain and all she got out of it was tonight? Well she honestly wouldn’t mind all that much.

The breeze was fairly gentle as Killian led her back toward the coast. The air smelled like sand and salt and a mixture of sugar and fried food – there was some kind of street fair going on not far from the marina and they were apparently downwind. She might have tried to convince him to veer off the path and grab a funnel cake or a Mexican chocolate sundae (the _kitschy_ name for a sundae with cinnamon on it) if she hadn’t been entirely _stuffed_ –

– and also a totally different kind of hungry.

Killian had been quiet for most of the walk, but every time she snuck a glance in his direction he looked happy – even more satisfyingly, he just looked _calm_. Serene, even.

She hadn’t known him long. She hadn’t been there for his greatest tragedies; nor had she truly see the mess of the fallout from them. But he was still so wildly different from the annoying stranger she screamed at for masturbating too loud in her apartment building. In the beginning he’d been flirty and cocky and what she hated to identify as _stereotypical man_ , but the more she got to know him, the _real_ him, the more she realized that had been nothing but a façade. And the closer they’d gotten the more he’d dropped the _scoundrel_ act, of course, but that had made way for a totally different energy radiating from the man who was now her very best friend. He was very careful around her, hesitant – his brain seeming to constantly be in a state of calculating how exactly she wanted or needed him to act.

(The guilt she had about the stress she’d probably put him under during her time of attraction-denial wasn’t something she’d get over any time soon, but this also wasn’t the time to dwell on that particular feeling.)

But now – ever since she’d told him she liked him, wanted him – ever since she’d agreed that she’d go on a date with him and actually give this _thing_ a chance, it’s like he was finally just _himself_.

And nothing made her prouder than knowing she actually for once had an honest-to-god positive impact on another human being.

She looked up at him, then, and smiled. He returned it and squeezed her hand (thus squeezing her seemingly freshly-beating heart at the same time). “Are you feeling sleepy, love, or care for some stargazing from the ship?” Killian tilted his head upwards, taking note of the gloriously clear night sky, the sliver of a waning moon just barely peeking over the water in the distance and the lights of the city getting dimmer the closer to the pier they ventured.

“Oh, I suppose I could keep myself awake a _little_ bit longer,” she teased, rocking up onto her tiptoes to brush a sweet kiss against his cheek. Based on the heated glances he kept shooting her as they continued walking, he knew _damn_ well she was anything but tired. But it was still fun to pretend she wasn’t a thousand percent desperate to finally give in completely to this attraction she’d been fighting since well before she got herself off to the sounds of his own hand on his dick.

(Yeah, she hadn’t forgotten about _that_ embarrassment, nor would she ever. But the awkwardness of the masturbatory incident would surely be well diminished by a mutually satisfying fuck on the deck of a pirate ship.)

(God, she should be at least _trying_ to keep her head out of the gutter, but seriously what was the fucking point? She wanted him, and nothing was going to stand in her way of having him.)

As if on cue, Emma’s cell phone started chiming from her small purse. In just about any other circumstance she’d have ignored it, but having to explain why she couldn’t make it to the hospital for some kind of bleeding emergency because she was too focused on getting laid was _not_ a conversation she was about to have.

“Should have guessed there’d be a crisis,” Killian muttered as Emma released his hand, fighting with the stubborn zipper to access her phone.

Mary Margaret’s smiling face was staring back at her and Emma tried _real_ hard not to be frustrated. “Hello?” _Nope, she definitely sounded frustrated_.

“Emma! I’m so sorry. I know you’re with Killian, but David told Robin and Robin told Regina and Regina told Belle and Will and basically everyone and I had to tell you first so you didn’t kill me for reading it on Facebook in the morning or something.”

Mary Margaret was breathless and Emma struggled to keep up, carefully thinking over what she’d just heard and trying to process if there was any actual information revealed through all the babble.

“Uh, find out _what_ exactly?”

“I’m pregnant!” Mary Margaret shouted with more enthusiasm than if she’d just taken the Gold medal in the goddamn Olympics – and Emma was nothing but _elated_ for her.

“That’s so great! When did you find out?”

“About an hour before you asked my opinion on clothes for your date. I didn’t want to take away your moment, I _swear_ , but I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to hide anything. And I also wanted to remind you that unless you intend to get as _zero_ sleep as David and I are about to get, I suggest you use some protection tonight.”

“Fine, _mom_ ,” Emma grumbled, both with embarrassment and true appreciation for Mary Margaret’s already strong maternal instincts. She was the closest thing to a mom Emma’d ever had, so it was basically like Emma was getting a sibling she could love and spoil. As much as she _knew_ she’d feel some jealousy at times for the kid having such a perfect life – the kind she nor Killian could even fathom – she knew her overwhelming love for him or her would make up for it.

“Tell Killian David already bought the kid a pirate outfit and we don’t even know if it’s a boy or not. So he’d better not get any ideas about doing the same.”

Emma and Mary Margaret giggled at that and Emma offered a congratulations before the two bid one another goodnight.

“So I take it the family is growing?” Killian asked, clearly having overheard Emma’s too-loud conversation (she kept her volume on loud so she could multitask when she was home – usually factoring in an _eavesdropper_ wasn’t a real issue.

“It is! And you heard the lady. No pirate costumes.”

“Of course not! I’ll grab a princess dress just to cover all the bases.”

Emma rolled her eyes but thanked the shining stars that she’d found a man who could be so impossibly adorable.

-

When Emma’s phone had rang, Killian had truly prepared himself for another long night of deep frustration and balls so blue they might permanently stay that way.

But when it had turned out to be nothing more than some bubbling good news, he thought _you know what? Maybe the world is on my side just this one night, after all_.

He could see his ship ahead and Emma’s hand was still tucked warmly in his own, and he realized it wasn’t as if he _needed_ the sex part of the evening to happen. It was perfectly fine if they really did just lie there and maybe fall asleep.

But he still highly doubted that’s how this was going to go. Every time he glanced down at her collarbones, her long, lean legs, her lips curled in an anticipatory smile – he could feel his pulse quicken and his cock stand at attention and _god_ he was just praying he wouldn’t fuck this up.

It had been a while since he’d come – even by his own hand – and even longer since he did so _in_ someone else. The last woman he’d slept with who had even _mattered_ had been Milah. And part of him still felt a little like he was betraying her by moving on this way (and that same part of him prayed that if she could drop by and check on him once in a while, tonight wouldn’t be one of them). But the larger part of him knew he needed to keep living his life. His heart was beating and he owed it to Milah – and to _himself_ – to never take that for granted.

He wanted Emma. He might (probably did) _love_ Emma. And he wanted to show her that in every way imaginable. Including on top of every surface on his ship (and hopefully in both of their apartments eventually, too).

Good thing he’d put those condoms in the captain’s quarters – and stored a few next to the hull.

(He’d never been a boy scout but he still respected their _always be prepared_ motto.)

“I’m so glad we did this tonight,” Emma said, practically out of nowhere, just as they were reaching his ship.

“That sounds like a goodbye. Do I at least get a kiss before you bid me good night?” Had he misread this whole situation? Maybe she was trying to keep the magic alive by making them wait longer? Or, worse, maybe the date had simply been a _dud_ and this was her way of blowing him off.

But no. That wasn’t at all like Emma. “No! It’s not goodbye. It’s just me acknowledging that I’m happy and had a good night. Just in case I happen to get… _distracted_ later.”

It was too dark to tell if Emma was actually blushing, but her smirk told him she very well might be and there was something painfully adorable about how hesitant and yet _not at all nervous_ she was about all this.

And him, too, really. He’d admitted how many months ago that of _course_ he would fuck her. She was beautiful and fiery and gorgeous and all other manners of wonderful. But she was too important for just one night. And now here they were, about to take a plunge into that _one night_ he swore would never be – praying to every God he’d ever _heard_ of that it wasn’t going to be their only.

Killian’s fingers brushed against the bottom of her dress as he slowly trailed them up her legs, her waist, her arms, until gently cupping her cheek and leaning forward to capture her lips with his. Their mouths moved together for just a few moments before he pulled back by nothing more than an inch, just enough to give him space to whisper, “you were thinking later for the distractions? Because I was feeling a little more like that – _kiss_ – should start – _kiss_ – now.”

“By all means, then, lead the way,” she whispered through a chuckle, stepping back and curtseying as she directed him to board his ship. It was so much more a princess move than a _wench_ one and he got to thinking maybe he should be expanding his cast of characters – he could even include the Nolan baby (once it arrived) to encourage more family-style excursions. But he was getting ahead of himself. Tonight was finally time for him to stop thinking of friendly and professional and _just OK_. No, tonight was going to be _everything_.

-

He was kissing her before she was fully on the fucking ship.

And he wasn’t just _kissing_ her. He was devouring her, caressing her, connecting his damn soul to hers as he pushed her squarely against the side of the ship, hoisting her up with more muscle than she even realized he _had_. She was kissing him back with everything she had, stroking her tongue against his, carding her fingers through his already tousled hair, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him closer (and to help him hold her up, of course).

There hadn’t been a lot of people in the marina – at least not that _she_ had seen – but Emma was still thankful she’d worn her spandex shorts beneath her flowing dress because there was no way that a little more of her legs than was entirely decent was currently showing. Killian’s fingers were digging into the skin of her thigh, his short, blunt nails sure to leave little crescent marks behind from every place he’d been grasping her. He nipped a little at her lip, his teeth biting down gently and pulling back and Emma let out a groan that would have said _why the hell aren’t we on a bed already_ if she’d had enough energy left in her body to even think actual words.

As he started kissing down her neck and nuzzling against her shoulder, she hummed in approval, gasping every time he nudged against a particularly sensitive spot (which seemed to be _her whole damn body_ , by the way, not that she was going to overanalyze when _that_ development occurred). One of his hands left her thighs to trail up across her breasts and as much as every nerve in her body was _begging_ him to just keep touching her, she really _really_ didn’t want to be the one who ended up in the hospital – and have to explain it was all because she was horny on a fucking boat.

So she unwrapped her legs from around Killian’s waist, allowing herself to slowly drop back onto her feet. In one swift move, their lips still connected, she switched their positions and pushed him back further onto the ship, backing him up the small set of stairs until they were at the helm. When they’d (clumsily) made it to the wheel, Emma stepped back and giggled a little at their impatience.

“I thought we were going to be stargazing, Killian,” she accused (with no bite).

“Oh, I fully intend to make you see stars, Emma, just not the ones in the sky,” he retorted, lunging back toward her to catch her lips again.

But she pulled back. “Nuh, uh, mister. None of that cheesiness here. It’s just _me_ , remember?”

“Yes, and _you_ make me cheesy. This is a well-established fact.”

She giggled ( _again_ – what was wrong with her?) and through the lusty haze she finally remembered exactly how she’d wanted to start tonight’s little _private_ excursion.

“Ok, Captain Mozzarella.” He smiled enough at that to (hopefully) ease him into remembering she wasn’t about to _bolt_ , but not so much that she’d destroyed the mood with her stupid impromptu nickname. She pulled him back into a searing kiss and the very second that he had fully given herself over to it, she left her hand creep down his chest, settling at his belt buckle. She worked it open swiftly and yanked down the zipper of his dark jeans, placing one last kiss on his lips before sinking down to her knees.

“Emma, what are you…? You don’t have to – ”

“Hush. Fair is fair. You got to play before. I get to play now.” She grinned as she brushed against his bulge, pulling the denim and his boxers down in one motion until all of him was once again bared to her – but this time she could actually _do_ something about it.

Killian seemed to be losing his footing, so he leaned back against the ship’s wheel and Emma started licking and sucking at his hipbones, his thighs. She could hear his breathing get more erratic as she started to lightly brush her hand along the length of him and he finally let out a deep moan when she took him fully in hand, licking at his head in rhythm with her slow strokes.

She teased him like that for a minute or two, but her own impatience was getting to her after long – that and Killian’s insistence. “Emma, can’t this wait? I don’t want to come this way. Please, love.”

She released just long enough to answer him, her hands still steadily stroking him. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

Sucking him back into her mouth, she sped up her ministrations, swirling her tongue around him and swallowing as he brushed the back of her throat. It really didn’t take long before he spilled himself into her – months of various forms of foreplay would do that to you - his grunts and groans and rapid breathing making her feel powerful and so very turned on.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he breathed, still combing his fingers through her ponytail as he motioned for her to stand. He kissed her deeply, seemingly unconcerned about the taste of himself in her mouth, before he coaxed her further toward the stern of the ship. “Ok, _I’ve_ seen some metaphorical stars. Now I think it’s your turn.”

There was something that would be highly entertaining about Killian’s not-at-all-graceful shuffle, his pants still wrapped around his ankles, but all Emma could focus on was the throbbing between her thighs and Killian’s lips on her neck. When they got to the back of the boat, Killian released her and bent down to retrieve some blankets he’d apparently stored here earlier in anticipation of this very moment. _Well, at least she wouldn’t be getting any splinters in her back._

Killian tossed the blanket down and grabbed a few pillows, motioning for Emma to lie down next to where he was now kneeling. She kicked off her shoes (sure, they _looked_ hot, but again, she wasn’t about to end up explaining to the ER how Killian got a high heel in his left eye, even if it _would_ be ironic for him to a have a real _pirate_ injury), and Killian immediately pushed up her dress and yanked down her shorts and underwear together. She helped him get them off her, kicking them aside, and Killian lay down between her legs, kissing at her belly button while he fondled her still-covered breasts. “Is anyone else out here?” she managed to ask as his fingers danced their way to where she was now very, _very_ wet, stroking so lightly she kind of wanted to _smack_ him.

“No one has any reason to hang around here at this hour. Most people are down at the carnival. Plus,” he added, kissing further and further down her torso, “no one can see us when we’re down this low. Just try to keep your sounds to a minimum, aye?”

His eyes connected with hers and it took all of her energy not to roll them at his stupid attempt at _swagger_ , but before she could come up with any kind of retort, he was licking at her clit and dipping his fingers into her center and she was embarrassingly close to falling apart well before he even started flicking his tongue.

She put one of her hands on his neck, holding him close to her (even though she knew he wasn’t about to pull back) and as enticing at his was watching him work at her beneath the soft light of the nearby marina lights, Emma needed to take a few breaths and focus on just _enjoying_. So she lay her head back and focused on the stars (the _actual_ glowing balls of gas lighting up the night sky), making her own constellations since she was too blissed out to remember her own name, much less the names of clusters of rock millions of miles away.

Her legs were starting to shake and Killian’s gentle laughter at that fact was only further pushing her toward the edge, but it just wasn’t enough. They’d done _this_ before – she knew what this felt like (fantastic, in case you were wondering). But she wanted something _more_.

“Killian, stop. Stop, just – come up here.” She was fully prepared to beg, to plead, to explain why exactly she was asking him to cease his perfectly adequate (utterly mind blowing) actions, but he seemed to understand immediately. He ripped off the pants that were hanging off his ankles and tossed his shirt and undershirt over his shoulder as Emma unzipped her dress and tossed it to the side. Killian reached back over to where he’d stashed the blankets and plucked a little foil square from under a spare pillow, ripping it open and rolling it down his now very hard length.

Emma lay back, somewhat enjoying the view, somewhat trying to take a second to appreciate that this was finally fucking happening.

The stars seemed brighter, somehow, but her senses were all out of whack – between feeling the sea breeze against parts of her that had never been quite so exposed before and the realization that right now in this moment everything was about to change – well, she wasn’t all that surprised that she couldn’t exactly see straight.

Killian quickly covered her body with his – the feel of his skin against hers comforting both emotionally and _literally it’s getting fucking cold_ and she leaned up to capture his lips out of near desperation. His sheathed length was rubbing against her as they kissed, but oddly enough neither of them was in any particular hurry at this point. Killian nudged her bra aside (yes, she’d kept it on _just in case_ ) and he sucked a pert nipple into his mouth, Emma moaning just a bit too loud in response. She muttered some version of _sorry_ , but Killian just laughed and kept moving his mouth against her, touching every piece of skin he could reach, fully _worshipping_ her now that she was giving him the chance.

Why exactly hadn’t she just burst in his room and joined him all those weeks back? Oh, right. Because she would have woken up the next morning and _bolted_ and the man moving slowly above her would have never become her very best friend, let alone her very probably _forever and always_ or whatever cheesy ass stupid concepts people were hyperbolically using to describe their _bae_ these days.

Ugh. And he’d made her one of those people.

Killian came up for air, looking deep into her eyes, and she _knew_ – it was now or never. He reached down to guide himself inside her and both of them groaned when he easily slipped in. Usually she wasn’t one for _sustained eye contact_ and all, but without a thought she’d kept her eyes locked with his as he started moving. She wrapped her arms around his back and clutched him to her as strongly as she could – and she was a _bail bonds person_ and had a tight grip, thank you very much. But it only encouraged him to go deeper, _faster_ , the heels of her feet pushing at the backs of his thighs as they gasped together.

If she’d thought _wine in the botanical garden_ was magical, she’d apparently never thought through the concept of _fucking underneath the stars_ because holy fucking _shit_. Even with a condom it was like she could feel every centimeter of him dragging along her walls, every breath on her neck and squeeze of her ass igniting nerves she didn’t know she _had_.

She’d thought earlier that day how she’d never really been on a date, and now she was very clearly realizing she’d never actually _made love_ and as much as that sounded cheesy and stupid, it was _true_ and what was happening at this very moment. The passion was undeniable and Emma knew _damn well_ that all the feelings coursing through her right now weren’t just attraction or hormones or whatever they fuck caused nothing more than pleasurable sexual feelings. This was _emotion_ , all heart and soul and being exposed in more ways than the _nude_ kind.

Killian’s pace had picked up considerably and she could hear her own moans getting higher in pitch (quiet as she was trying to be), their slapping skin and heavy breathing somehow not detracting from the pure romance of the situation.

She’d never so badly wanted to feel someone pulse inside of her, never had _needed_ to come so desperately. And as if hearing her thoughts, Killian reached his hand between them and stroked against her, working her into oblivion nearly in tandem with himself.

-

He wasn’t going to be able to move for at least four hours.

It wasn’t just that the blankets hadn’t done as much as he’d hoped to ease the pressure on his knees as he hovered over her, it was more than he’d never been so fucking drained from sex in his life. It was like he’d emptied his actual _emotions_ into her and not just his… stuff.

It’s not that he’d never had passionate sex before. Of _course_ he had. He’d loved Milah. And he’d slept with other girls before and had done so _enthusiastically_. But there’d never been _this_ kind of build up, these many feelings by the very first time. And holy _shit_ he was going to need a minute to catch his breath and figure out how he was going to go about his usual activities like _existing_ , knowing for sure now what he’d been missing all of this time.

“You OK?” she said, just as breathless as him.

He grabbed another blanket and threw it over them both as he trashed the condom off the side of the ship (which was probably littering but Killian just _couldn’t_ care right now). “I’m… excellent actually. Better than ever.”

“Me too,” Emma responded with a smile, cuddling up to him with perfect ease.

“I don’t think I can make it back to the apartment, Emma. You’ve exhausted me.” He stroked her hair and dropped random kisses on her shoulder as they lay there, their breaths finally slowing.

“We could nap before we walked back. Don’t you think for one second I’m done with you, mister.” Her eyes were mischievous and yet full of something like _love_ and he wasn’t about to deny her anything if he literally had the capability in his body to give it to her.

He groaned and rolled away from Emma, reaching for his clothing and tossing hers lightly at her. If we fall asleep, we’ll wake up to nosy fishermen and probably the beginnings of a sunburn. Let’s get some gelato down at the carnival and then get an Uber home. And then I promise to take care of you as many times and in as many places as you desire.

Emma (very theatrically) faked contemplation, scratching her chin and closing one eye, tilting her head back and forth like a confused puppy. “Ohhhhh, fine. You’ve convinced me.”

He helped her zip up her dress and she righted his collar and they walked off toward the distant sound of music, finally _blissfully_ sure they weren’t fucking anything up at all.

-

It really had been the most _amazing_ day.

When they got back to the apartment, their clothes were off in sixteen seconds flat, and they had sex against Killian’s kitchen counter and again up against his bed before they were finally pulled out of their sex-reverie.

“Jones, will you and your lady keep it the fuck down?” a very cranky voice sounded from somewhere above Killian’s bed. Perhaps in the apartment one floor above?

“Sorry, mate!” Killian called back, laughing like it was all _very_ funny (it kind of was, considering Emma and his beginnings, her own frustration at the grunting through the wall).

“You know the upstairs neighbors, too?” Emma was surprised, but also not really. His personality was infectious – and the walls really _were_ thin.

“What can I say? I’m a friendly guy. That’s Jefferson. I call him Bucky because he looks like that wanker from _Captain America_.”

“As long as you don’t have the same pastimes with other neighbors as you do with me, then we’re OK,” She said, dropping a quick kiss on his forehead just to make a point.

“Deal,” he said to Emma, before lying back again to face the ceiling. “Better get your headphones on, Bucky!” he shouted.

And as their bodies came together once again, they heard nothing but their own breaths and heartbeats

– and a very loud, annoyed _knock, knock_ coming from the floor above them.

_Sorry, not sorry_ is all she could manage to think before Killian’s mouth was over hers and all other thoughts were just… gone.


	18. It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the wait for this has been so long! But I have a new job and I'm finally getting settled and I'm trying to get back to doing what I loooove. So here! Last we left off, Killian and Emma had finally gone on a date (and gotten out of their clothes).

_Why exactly couldn't life just work like a fucking rom-com_ , Emma thought, Killian's fourth phone call that morning dashing all her hopes of a morning-after  _shag_ (the British slang was rubbing off on her, apparently, or maybe it was helping her cope. Who knows).  
  
That's  _not_ how this should work. They went on the date. They had the sex. Depending on the rating of the film, this would either be the  _cute-series-of-dates_  montage or the mashup of various sexual positions in fun and exciting new locales (oh, soooo many surfaces in their apartment remained woefully  _unchristened_ ).  
  
But no. Emma didn't wake up to sunshine and orgasms. She awoke to sleep deprivation and an aching back (stupid uncomfortable boat) and the real world where Killian still owned a one-man booming business (and she still needed to figure out what the hell to do with her life).  
  
He kept stealing glances at her as he talked with clients and partners and travel agents (those still existed?), begging her to stay in bed just a little longer so he could come back and snuggle the morning away.  
  
But that never happened. She got a call from David and Killian had to check back with his insurance agent, and their glorious first day of  _we're actually doing this_ turned into nothing more being done than a kiss on the forehead and a sad smile goodbye.  
  
-  
  
A man should be happy when he's making money, but Killian was decidedly  _not_.  
  
OK he  _was_. But it was complicated. Because all that money making was taking an awful lot of time and energy and he was left with about nothing left at the end of the day. Nothing for his Swan.  
  
(They didn't have labels yet but she knew damn well he was hers, so what was the harm in thinking maybe possibly she could be his in return?)  
  
They still saw each other, of course. But it wasn't the way he'd been fantasizing all those weeks and months before they became what they are now. (Whatever that might be.) He'd pictured hours of cuddling, kissing, fucking until dawn. He'd imagined candlelit dinners every night and fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and yes his imagination seemed an awful lot like a refrigerator commercial, but the point was simple: he'd expected something to  _change_.  
  
And it hadn't. In some ways that was goddamn glorious. Emma was his very best friend in the world. And he was hers. And there was no longer a single bit of tension between them. No worry about crossing a line, no fears of miscommunication, nothing. They were delightfully  _them_  and about that he would never complain.  
  
And they were still quite the team. She was his first mate on most excursions (though with Ruby leaving, he was going to have to change up his working style). They still had Netflix nights and silly arguments over TV plotholes ("OK but where is their fucking kid? Babies aren't plot devices!" he’d yell. "Sometimes they are; just accept it, Jones," she’d say back) and all the bad food (and worse jokes) you could imagine.  
  
(And yeah there WAS sex and snuggling. Just not  _nearly_ enough.)  
  
It wasn't because they didn't want more. It's just - well, life doesn't care about what we want sometimes, does it?  
  
It had been two weeks since their date and Ruby was leaving town forever (hyperbole) in just one, so Killian was fucking swamped. She'd been teaching him all about social media and online presence and how to be funny without sounding like an arse and he really was learning - but it still seemed damn near impossible to just  _be_  Ruby all of a sudden.

"Emma will help, you know," Ruby broke into his thoughts, her hand trailing up and down his arm in an oddly comforting manner despite their relationship not generally being so... raw. "She just didn't want to jump in too fast and ruin you guys; that’s all. You're not going to be alone in this." Killian wasn't used to Ruby abandoning all humor and innuendo, and it left him some manner of shocked, to be honest.

"I can't push her, Ruby. She's not  _wrong_. We can't be everything to one another. That's not even healthy." Killian had actually seen what it was like to be someone's everything and how that could destroy a person. Will, believe it or not, had once been an OK guy. He'd made a woman his whole life, though, and when she was no longer a factor it  _broke_  him. And of  _course_  Emma wasn't planning to leave Killian (not that they were official... yet?), or that he was going to abandon _her_. But he was also well aware of the other kind of loss - the kind that you can't see coming. The kind that left him without Liam, without Milah. The kind that left Emma without Neal or Graham. Death is (unfortunately) the only thing we're guaranteed. So it wasn't as morbid as Killian was worrying he was sounding - even in his own head - to think of how it's just not worth it to  _Romeo and Juliet_  your lives into nothing. Emma needed to be Emma and he needed to be Killian. And in the words of the great Topanga Lawrence (Matthews),  _and if we are together it will be beautiful_ (yes, Killian had watched the Disney channel in the 90s. So sue him).

"Oh, come on, Killian. I think you're thinking too much about it. I'm not suggesting you sign over half the business to her. I think she's really working on finding her own groove, something that will make her feel like she's contributing to the world. Bail bonds seems to have run its course for her. And she's working hard to figure out what her next move is. And she  _will_  make it. You both need to stop acting like her being a small part of your business is going to make you legally and bodily conjoined or something." Ruby's teasing, eye-rolling, overall snarky demeanor had returned, and Killian felt himself relaxing a bit more. (Familiarity, and all that.)

"I should probably just hire someone to replace you. They have social media/online specialists and stuff, right?" Killian whipped out his phone and started searching through job titles on Monster because he  _swore_  that was a thing.

But Ruby took his phone. 

"You can do this on your own, Killian. It's not the magic you're acting like it is." Ruby opened up his twitter app and started showing him lists and hashtags and mentions and all manners of things he knew he'd understand eventually, but wasn't quite there. Yet.

 

-

 

"I have a stupid idea," Emma blurted later that night. She and Killian were wrapped up in her bed, watching some documentary she wasn't paying attention to. Her mind was  _so_  elsewhere. Killian had been bemoaning his loss of Ruby that day and how he was so lost trying to figure out how to take over her online marketing stuff, that he'd entirely forgotten he'd need to hire “subpar” actors for the excursions that were promised to be sufficiently pirate-y. 

It had been bugging Emma. Not because she didn't have thoughts. But because she  _did_. Helping Killian was something she was always thinking about and for once she had a great idea, but she was too nervous about "overstepping her boundaries" to say anything.

She'd been right, you know. About not wanting to be too involved in Killian's life. But Ruby, ever the meddler she was, had sent her a series of text messages the day before.

_You know life isn't all or nothing, right, Emma?_

_When was the last time you saw Killian for more than one hour at a time?_

_Remember how you don't currently have a full time job and Killian is looking for some help?_

_Hey, maybe there's an obvious solution right there that isn't stupid if you'd stop being terrified and just use some logic..._

Emma hadn't responded, but Ruby had certainly seen the  _read_  notifications to understand that the message was received. 

Ugh. Why did Ruby always have to be right?

"Is it about having sex against the wall in front of that mirror? Because I've been thinking about it, and it wouldn't be stupid if we just removed that nail from the wall first..."

Hah. Of  _course_  his thoughts were sex-related. (It had been more than a few days and honestly she was surprised he'd even suggested the documentary - but since he had she'd assumed  _tired_  was winning over  _horny_  and she was actually OK with it).

"No! Well,  _yes_ , that too. But I was thinking about your business actually." He quirked his eyebrow and started pushing his half-hard arousal into her ass before she smacked his hip and rolled her eyes. "Not the business in your pants! Listen to my proposal and  _then_  I'll fuck you. Got it?"

"Fuck me?  _Business_ it is," he responded, rolling his eyes (again). 

"Oh, shut it. You know I get crass when I'm nervous. I will  _make love_ to you later. Listen to my idea before I get too self-conscious to say it, OK?"

Killian pulled himself back from her body, sitting up on the bed and crossing his hands over his lap as he made very serious eye contact with her. "As you wish, boss. What's the plan?"

God, he was too cute for his own good. She sat cross-legged in front of him, pausing the TV before tossing the remote to the side and gathering his hands in hers. 

"What if,  _just for the time being_ , I take over with planning the entertainment factors and you worry about the business. I  _know_  I flaked on being more involved before, but I think I was panicking that I'd see you always. And not the romantic Castle and Beckett kind of always. I'm taking the _I can't stand the sound of your fucking breathing_  always and I wasn't willing to take that risk. But considering we legitimately do make a great team and as of right now we're seeing each other just this side of  _never_ , I figured it's worth a shot. Especially since I've decided I'm going to go back to school. Part time! Just to see if this whole idea I have about what I should do with my life is... smart - or not. Maybe. I don't know. Please say something."

Killian seemed to have put on his poker face, and it was scaring her to pieces. She hadn't crossed a line, right? Oh,  _god_ , how could she be so...

But he cut her off with a strong squeeze of his hands and a very loud "hey!" - which was when she'd realized her face must have looked about 98% defeated and 2% ashamed.

"It's a lovely plan, Swan. I'd been... well, I was afraid to ask for your help. Honestly I was afraid to ask you much of anything about the future. Didn't want to ruin our progress and all that." Killian looked a bit chagrined and her shoulders relaxed considerably.

God, they were both so ill-equipped. Such a matching set. Kindred spirits had probably been putting it lightly.

She exhaled so loud she expected  _Bucky_ upstairs to complain. "Well, are you ready for the stupid part of the plan?" she asked with a chuckle.

-

"Seriously, love, you want  _Will_  to help out? We literally ended up at the  _hospital_  last time, darling. I'm not trying to sound condescending here, but have you lost your fucking mind?" He was happy - no, elated - that Emma was willing to help. But he'd just assumed she was going to suggest hiring actors who kinda sucked. Not recruiting her somewhat arch enemy.

"Killian. I know you've been busy and have barely had time for  _me,_ let alone all your _mates_. But think about it. When's the last time he said anything remotely horrifying?" Emma paused, her raised eyebrows and considerable head-tilt suggesting her question wasn't rhetorical. So Killian wracked his brain and came to a very odd conclusion: Will wasn't really so bad these days.

His eyes must have betrayed his thoughts, because Emma continued as if he'd agreed with her. "He and Belle have had  _four_  dates since we've had our  _one_. They're passing us on the relationship scale in many different categories, Jones. And he's sucking a whole lot less because of it. I'm not going to lie - I still think it's downright pathetic that he needed the motivation of  _courting a woman_  for him to stop being a dick, but whatever. He stopped. And Belle - she's a cop a town over, so she's tough and stern, but she's also one of the biggest bookworms you'll ever meet. I think if we involve the  _both_  of them, then we'll actually capture a whole new market - people looking to be  _educated_."

She really  _had_  given this some thought. And...  _damn_  she was actually  _right_. (Not that he ever really doubted her. Not  _often_ , anyway.)

"What would I do without you, Swan?" he asked, releasing her hand to caress her cheek.

"Well, for one, you'd be doing  _this_  all on your own," she said with a giggle, reaching her now-free hand to his thighs, brushing across his crotch so lightly (but surely) that he got chills the whole way up his spine. His first instinct was to tease her right back, but the adorable yet extremely sexy lust in her eyes changed  _that_  plan but fast as he launched himself toward her, capturing her lips with his. 

His eagerness must have surprised her because she gasped a little, allowing his tongue to swipe along the inside of her lip, curling to stroke her own. Both now on their knees, Emma increased the pressure over his clothes until he was hard as a fucking rock and groaning so loudly he was sure to get some angry words from other neighbors soon enough. She read his impatience and finally let her hand creep beneath the waistband of his shorts, grasping him fully and pumping him through his boxers. The relief was so strong that he lost focus for a moment, releasing her lips and locking eyes with her as he eased her back down to her pillow. He quickly covered her body with his, his lips latching onto her neck with such force she was definitely going to need some concealer if she didn't want to look properly _ravaged_  come morning. She moaned and pushed his boxers down enough to make contact with his silky skin, and he rewarded her with a trail of kisses from her neck to her bra line, shoving the material aside to close his lips over her pebbled nipple.

"Ungh, enough foreplay, Killian," she whined, pushing him off her gently. He'd wanted to peel her clothes off slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was bared to him, but who was he kidding? It had been a while (not  _really_ , but as far as honeymoon phases go, in addition to  _sharing a fucking wall_ , it really had been an eternity) so he just watched her unceremoniously shed her clothes as he did the same, him reaching for the condoms in her bedside drawer first because he had fewer articles of clothing to toss aside. 

He was sheathed and lying back on the bed by the time she was unhooking her bra, and a mischievous glint sparkled in her eye when she caught him lightly stroking himself. "So you call bottom, I see?"

"No, love, I - I didn't mean... I can be on top if you - " but she cut him off before he could get any more blabber-y or embarrassed.

"Nope. Stay where you are. I was looking forward to a good ride, anyway," she teased, straddling him and rubbing herself way too slowly against him.

"Em-maaaaaa," he groaned, plucking at her nipples as he watched their bodies slide against one another. She was looking  _far_  too much like she was enjoying his pain more that she was enjoying her own pleasure, but it seemed her impatience won out quickly enough as she reached her hand down, positioned him just right and sank down.

And holy fucking  _shit_  was he not prepared for that.

 -

She should have been  _exhausted_. It really had been a long day of research - both for her own possible upcoming education  _and_  for Killian's business (not to mention the earth-shattering orgasm[s] she just had) - but her brain was still in full _get-shit-done_ mode. 

After some deeply satisfying sex and a few long, slow kisses, Killian had finally slipped out of her and had shuffled to the bathroom to get a washcloth. When he returned she was already on her phone, sending texts to Will and Belle to see if they'd meet her in the morning. She needed to get this plan in motion  _fast_  if it was going to pay off (and not stress them both to death) - plus there was the matter of Ruby's surprise going away party she needed to finish planning.

Her very best non-sex-having friend was leaving her for the land of rain and Edward Cullen and she'd be damned if she wouldn't throw at least the second best party of all time to celebrate it  _before_  she cried herself to sleep a few times. 

Killian, though, didn't seem impressed with her multitasking abilities. "Really, love, are you instagramming your #aftersex face? Because I'm deeply uncomfortable with that," he half-joked, actual hurt seeming to cross his face at her quick change of focus. 

"No, I promise all my post-coital bliss is reserved for you. I'm just texting people before I fall asleep. I need Will and Belle on board with being pirates and I need David and Mary Margaret to confirm some things about Ruby's party and - " Emma was going to keep talking, but Killian's face had fallen – and had taken her heart with it.

_Shit_. This probably was seeming an awful lot like when he was with Milah, when their jobs ruled all and they barely had time to truly _enjoy_ one another. 

Ugh. She could be such an unintentional ass. 

She finished tapping out the messages and then opened her legs to let him clean her, trying to apologize with her eyes instead of her words, because sometimes words were the worst and relationships were still scary and  _why couldn’t she just not be a mess_? 

He seemed to catch her drift, swiping the warm rag across her before pulling the covers over her and sliding in himself (tossing the rag somewhere near the TV before he plopped down).

"I'm sorry," he breathed, once they were properly cocooned. 

Which caught her off guard. " _You're_  sorry? I was the jerk texting instead of being  _here_  with you."

"But I'm the one who was looking at you like you were kicking a baby when really you were just taking care of business.  _My_  business, actually. I'm bad at this, you know," he reminded her, booping her nose very sweetly with his own.

"Me, too. We'll be bad together," she chuckled, dropping a kiss on his lips before curling deeper into him, sleep claiming them both before they could respond any further.

 

Will had agreed so fast, Emma had thought maybe he'd misunderstood the question. Seriously, he'd responded less than a minute after she'd sent the text in the first place. Sure, she hadn't read it until morning, but still. It was downright _weird_. She hadn't even told him yet that she was involving  _Belle_. Unless the two had been together, possibly engaging in similar activities to her and Killian...

His arm wrapped more tightly around her middle as his alarm went off from somewhere on the floor. "Fuck, why didn't I remember to put that under my pillow?" he groaned.

"Because I distracted you with sex. Yay, me!" Emma placed a kiss on his bicep and slid out of bed, grabbing his phone and tossing it at his chest. "I'm meeting Will for breakfast and Belle for lunch. Can you accompany me either time?"

"Unfortunately, no," he groaned, probably scrolling through his calendar. "The day is pretty booked with people and I have to prepare for the 'open house' tomorrow."

Open house. They were such geniuses, really. It had been Ruby's idea to do one - and he would, of course, but  _this_  event was actually not an open house at all. Killian had assured Ruby  _he_  would take care of announcing it and planning it and such... because it was _actually_ her going away party and not an open house at all. (Emma was so proud.)

  
The  _Jewel_  was the perfect spot for it. It's sort of where their group-friendship had been solidified. Plus, it was a damn marvel (Killian's words). She was going to love it, and with any luck, she'd be surprised.

"That's fine! I'll handle these two. Who may or may not have slept together last night," Emma added, voicing her thoughts from earlier.

"Ohhhh, no they didn't," Killian responded, shaking his head almost violently. "Will apparently is pulling a  _me_  and asked Belle to  _wait_. Which I'm fairly sure embarrassed the hell out of her, because unlike our situation, they actually  _have_  been on dates, so it doesn't quite make as much sense."

"Oh!" Hmmm. _Then why the quick agreement_? she wondered.

Killian kept laughing and celebrating his own "relationship prowess" in comparison to Will’s “flub” and Emma didn't say anything to contradict him - he did win  _her_  after all (not that she was a _prize_  - god she sounded so damsel-in-distress in her head sometimes).

_Love makes you do the whacky_ , she thought, and didn't even try to correct her brain for using that big scary word she'd never say out loud. 

(Well, _almost_ never.)

 -

 

Despite being extremely busy with other things, Killian was practically glued to his phone all morning. Ruby was getting on his ass about not posting enough on Instagram ( _just post a fucking selfie on the ship and you'll get hordes of likes)._  Emma was telling him all about Will being a "better man" ( _Killian - he agreed before he knew Belle was on board. He's all_ I need to make this up to you _and I literally don't know how to deal with this. Help me_ ). David was being a pain in the ass about the food for Ruby's going away party, his insurance agent was on his ass for submitting duplicates of the same fucking forms he'd just signed the week before, and Mary Margaret was pretending to care about Ruby's party details when really she just wanted to confirm her clear suspicion that Killian and Emma were heading for "exclusive" territory like it wasn't the most  _duh_  thing since the last Marvel movie topped the box office. 

He'd be annoyed - he really would - except that his new reality was so overwhelmingly comforting to him. There was a time when Liam was the only one to (lovingly) pester him. And later there was Milah and his boys (Robin and Will) being the only ones to really, actually care about his day – and half the time even they were just sort of so-so about it all. But his life had grown so much and it was like he had this  _family_  now and he wasn't about to whine at something he'd secretly wished for his whole life. 

So he kept his phone clutched in his hand all day, feeling simultaneously annoyed and excited every time the damn thing vibrated.

 

The next day was more of a blur. He'd had a lunchtime corporate thing in the late morning that was just him and Emma - they weren't even in pirate mode for this one - he just needed her help with serving and talking and monitoring. She'd kissed the daylights out of him before anyone else had boarded so it wasn't the  _worst_  experience, but it wasn't exactly delightful, either. The guys were from an insurance firm and their sales tactics were slimy as hell and Killian hated listening to their manager lay out the plans for the year when he knew it was full of yuck. It just solidified that the world was sometimes awful.

But it _was_ refreshing to have Emma there, if only to be the recipient of his _Jim-Halpert-looking-at-the-camera_ eye roll.  

As soon as the guys had vacated the ship (complete with praise for Killian and his assistant), he and Emma went about getting all the decorations, food and entertainment on board for Ruby's party later on. Emma was in high spirits, but they seemed at least 65% forced. He kept taking moments to soothe the worry lines on her forehead, to drop kisses on her cheek, to rub some tension out of her shoulders after she'd lifted particularly heavy boxes. And she'd smiled at him like he was a goddamn miracle – for at least ten seconds before her face would fall once again. 

It was hard for _him_ , too. If it weren't for the addition of Ruby, the deflection that went along with having a third person around them much of the time, he'd bet good money Emma might have run from him (them) a time or two. And more importantly, Killian  _loved_  Ruby. She'd brought him out of his shell, she'd brightened his darker days, she was an important person to his existence with or without Emma Swan.

And he was going to _miss_ her.

But she'd done far more for Emma - in many ways Ruby seemed like the only reason Emma ever believed she might be able to be OK someday in the first place - so Killian tried to let his sad feelings take a backseat to Emma's while she figured out how she would cope with this very upsetting turn of events.

It wasn’t much later when Emma stepped back from the punch fountain Ruby had insisted would be a hit to say, "Who am I going to call when I fuck up?” Killian dropped the ladle and stepped closer, opening his arms to her as she nuzzled into his shoulder. "Not Mary Margaret. She'd never get it. Ruby and I - we're alike. You know that. You're like us, too.”

"We’re a lovely band of fuck-ups, to be sure. But you’re still wrong. First of all, you're _not_ going to fuck up. Anything that happens, you can talk to me with no shame. Second, and most logically here, sweetheart, you can  _still call Ruby_. Phones do work cross-country, you know."

Emma laughed and pushed him away, stealing a kiss before bolting back up the stairs to finish hanging the banner.

 

Ruby arrived exactly on time - but with  _exactly_  the wrong attitude. Instead of being confused by the "empty" ship and then surprised when everyone jumped out, she ran up the gangplank and yelled "Surprise, bitches, I already knew!" as everyone (dejectedly) stood from their crouched positions and muttered a chorus of half-hearted  _surpris_ es (and a few chains of expletives). 

It couldn't have gone  _better_ , though, after that. Ruby, though unsurprised, was eternally grateful. She was bubbling and happy and hugging every single person on the ship, dragging the doctor along with her (his own smile rivaling the intensity of hers). They were so happy and all their combined friends were in jovial spirits, just bouncing about and reminiscing and playing songs through Killian's speakers that should certainly have been banned after the year they were released, but no one seemed to care. It was an evening of love and pure joy and nothing could bring them down, it seemed.

You know, except for the suspicious absence of his best friend/neighbor/fuck buddy/true love. Yeah, Emma had hugged Ruby when she'd gotten there and had thanked the group for coming and for keeping their mouths shut even though Ruby had found out anyway ( _did you really think I wouldn't be monitoring your social media, Killian? You didn't mention an open house_ once _)_ , but after that he hadn't seen her. She wasn't with Robin and Regina, wasn't with Belle, wasn't with Will or Mary Margaret or David or anyone Ruby knew from Granny's. She was hiding and he was going to have to find her before Ruby found her and  _kicked her sorry ass_  (Ruby's words, not his). 

He tried some obvious places, like the bathroom. He tried some sillier places, like beneath drooping table cloths. But the last place he checked really should have been the most _obvious_ : curled up in his bunk.

(And sobbing.)

"Emma?" he entered the room with extreme caution, not sure exactly what she needed right now – and hoping she’d at least _try_ to tell him what that was.

"Yeah?" she responded, still sniffling. He approached her and sat at her side, her back to him as he ran his fingers through her iron-straightened hair. 

"You're missing a jolly good time. For once there's frivolity on the ship that you're supposed to be a part of, love. Shouldn't you take advantage?" he kept his tone light, but he really meant it. It was an emotional time for Emma, yes, but she deserved to let go. Be happy. Have a damn drink instead of watching to cut off other people who'd clearly had too many.

"I just... I need to do _this_ for a little while," Emma whispered, motioning at her curled up body.

"I've  _let_  you do this for too long, Swan," he responded, assuming his assertion that he could _control_ her in any way would lead to her setting him (metaphorically) on fire.

 But she was just defeated. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," she said through a sob-chuckle mixture. He was about to laugh at her and continue his gentle suggestion that she get her ass back to the party when a biting voice broke the soft-toned exchange.

 "Excuse me, Emma Swan, it's  _my_  party. And all crying  _must include me_ ," Ruby shouted from the doorway, sprinting over to the tiny bunk and piling directly on top of Killian and Emma. She pulled Killian down with her, covering Emma with both of their bodies and squeezing them tightly, Ruby's tears spilling over just as much as Emma's. 

_(If Killian had ever imagined two beautiful women in this bed with him, he really hadn't assumed it would be like_ this _.)_

_"_ I'm going to miss you guys so much," Ruby said after her breaths were a bit more controlled. "I can't believe one shitty apartment building led to all this. And I'm _really_ sorry I'm saying goodbye to it."

Emma just kept crying - something told Killian she'd bottled enough emotion over the past years that the tears weren't  _all_  for Ruby (but still something she needed to do, her only semi-recent outlet having been a  _funeral_ ). So he let her cry as he combed his fingers through her hair, his other hand tightly holding Ruby's. "Oh, believe me, Ruby. You won't be getting rid of us anytime soon."

 The three of them spent only another minute indulging in their sadness before they headed back to the deck where apparently the mousy guy from the diner (Gus?) was challenging Victor to a dance-off to what should have been a _defunct_ Backstreet Boys song.

Killian got it on video and uploaded it to his Instagram:  _what happens on my ship stays forever on YouTube_ ,  _but it's all worth it, anyway_ , he wrote. 

Ruby smacked him later for making "an ass" of her boyfriend, but the girl had no bite. No, they were all drunk and happy and in for a really terrible tomorrow morning... 

And, yeah, it was all worth it, anyway.


	19. Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Once day! I'm not sure what to expect from tonight's episode, but I'm hoping for some good stuff. Until then (or after it, if you're opening this after the show ended), enjoy this transitional chapter. Emma and Killian are entering new territory.

Ruby left her on a Tuesday.

(Seriously, fuck Tuesdays.)

Emma hugged Ruby practically to _death_ at the door to their no-longer-shared apartment building. Killian gave them some space but Ruby had screamed at him to join the group hug and of all the situations she never thought she’d be in, this one probably topped the list.

Not one but _two_ accidental neighbors had come into her life and proved to her that she’d been nothing but flat out fucking _wrong_ the majority of her life she spent feeling like she’d always be alone. Through a thin wall or across a whole damn country, she was loved and loving and she’d berate herself for being so closed off all her life and for all the things she’d probably missed out on because of it, but you know what? If she’d opened up sooner maybe she’d have entrusted her heart (and sanity) to complete _dicks_ and then where would she be?

Definitely not in this ridiculously weird neighbor sandwich.

Mary Margaret and David had apparently arrived mid-hug and joined in, too, and even though none of them really knew Whale all that well, he also got out of the car and dove in. Emma might have started crying a _little_ for the happy and a _lot_ for the sad that was her day-to-day life without Ruby Lucas, the biggest pain in the ass, beautiful, supportive, (platonic) best friend she never thought to ask for (but was given anyway).

There was awkward shuffling as the group hug disassembled, plenty of mumbled goodbyes – even a few laughs – but in less than the span of one sitcom commercial break, Ruby was on her way to becoming a Seattle girl.

(Ugh, Seattle. Home of zombies and horny doctors and whiny music and _rain_.)

Mary Margaret had been so nauseated she could barely stand (pregnancy, _yuck_ ), so she and David drove off the same time as Whale and Ruby, leaving just Emma and Killian and an apartment building that felt somehow haunted by a person who was extremely _not dead_ (and easily reachable via a hundred different methods of communication common in the 21 st fucking century).

( _Self awareness about your crazy; that’s the key_ , Emma thought.)

Killian tugged her back into her living room and they curled up on her lumpy couch, one of the Captain America movies playing quietly in the background. They were quiet for far too long, Killian clearly just letting her sort through whatever sadness she needed to on her own – before he finally offered to make her dinner.

“What do you say, love: homemade pizza or chicken fajitas?” Emma’s eyes were trained on their linked fingers between them, but she could just _feel_ his self-satisfied smirk (playfully) taunting her entire lack of cooking abilities.

It was cliché, yes, but his perfection hit her like a damn brick wall when she finally lifted her face to look at him. He was tired – long days on the ship and long nights spent mastering things like online booking programs and Instagram and how to properly word the safety policy so that people knew they couldn’t sue him but also still thought they might be able to have a bit of fun – it was all tiring, but he was _here_. He was sad – he was “losing” one of his best friends, too – but he was letting _her_ sadness take precedent. He let her take the lead in just about everything, but the _second_ he knew it was what she wanted, he was all in. He was hot and sweet and athletic and smart and in so many ways just as broken as her – and somehow she’d been so fortunate as to not only _find_ him but develop a deep and meaningful friendship with him well before the kissing and the intense orgasms and why the _hell_ were they tiptoeing around all of this anyway?

Oh, right. Because of _her_. Because he was always going to follow her lead. To the end of the world. Or time, probably, because he was that fucking perfect and was she really so stupid that she was going to let him doubt for one more second that just because she was worried he might grow tired of her after too long in one another’s company that it wasn’t at least worth a _try_?

“What are we?” she blurted out (well before it dawned on her that he didn’t have a ticket to her thought train).

“Uh, hungry people, I’d assumed?” he responded, a confused chuckle escaping his lips like a cough. “if those choices aren’t to your liking, I certainly can take a look at what else I have lying around your cupboards, but I must warn you, love, it’s most likely only rice…”

“Sorry, um, no. I mean – pizza. Pizza is good. For the dinner thing. But the other thing. I mean – as for you and me. What are we? Because I never know what to call you. In my head. Or out loud, if anyone were to ask. Not that they do, because everyone I talk to knows better than to ask me anything that might ‘spook’ me because I’m nuts. Apparently. And I know _you’re_ not going to ask me. Or – well, that’s not fair. You might have. But now you won’t have to. Because _I’m_ asking. So, yeah. What are we?”

_Real fucking smooth, Emma_.

Killian’s confusion melted away and was replaced by an Earth-shattering smile beaming from his stupidly handsome face. “Well, Swan, we’re a lot of things. Best friends. Neighbors. Business partners. Karaoke champions…” he paused, squeezing her fingers and leaning in so his lips were just barely brushing against hers. “ _Lovers_.”

The overwhelming need to _kiss the living daylights out of him_ almost distracted her from the moment, but she fought it, leaning away to look into his eyes again, quirking her eyebrow for him to continue.

“Add it up and it all spells _duh_ , don’t you think?” Killian released her, swinging his legs off the couch and walking toward her kitchen, apparently ready to get back to the dinner conversation and not answer her actual real life question.

Ugh.

“Don’t quote _Buffy_ to me and then walk away, Jones! You know what I’m asking.”

He leaned down (so very casually) and gathered the pizza stone from under Emma’s oven, plopping it down on her counter before walking back to the couch and kneeling in front of her. “Yes, Emma, I’m aware what you’re asking. And I’m answering you: I don’t know the word for what _we_ are, but as for me, I’m nothing but _yours_.”

_Damn perfect British bastard_. Emma was speechless, of course, because who _wouldn’t_ be after a speech like that? Killian took advantage of her dumbfounded silence and captured her lips with his – a slow, sweet caress that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that while, yes, he _was_ good with words, not a single part of that was anything but true.

After what seemed like the world’s shortest kiss, Killian pulled away (probably dead set on that fucking pizza again), but Emma surged forward, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring herself to him as she swallowed his groan of surprise. Her tongue swept across his bottom lip and he opened for her, their tongues sliding against one another in a dance they’d all but memorized in the relatively short time since they’d given into, well, _this_. And, like always, one thing was leading to another but _fast_. Killian’s hands were sliding from their place on her thighs to wind around her waist. The feel of his strong hands digging into her back had her gasping, and he took advantage of her break in the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek and down her neck, finally stopping at her collarbone to suck _hard_. It would leave a mark, but fuck if she cared. She relished in his attentions a few moments before the need was just getting too much and she tugged on his hair until his eyes met hers. “Bed?”

Instead of answering (you know, like a normal person), he gripped her waist tight and lifted himself and her together, her legs instinctively wrapping around him as he started carrying them the ten (long) steps to her bed. He dropped her onto it once it his knees were against it – releasing her with equal parts care and impatience, ripping his shirt over his head and snapping open his jeans before her body had fully hit the mattress. It was sweet and incredibly hot, how much he wanted her, so she allowed herself a moment just to _watch_.

“What?” he asked her, halting in confusion at her staring (and lack of stripping, probably) with his pants almost comically wound around his knees.

She stared back at him with her most reassuring smile, her eyes boring into his so he’d know exactly how much she meant the next words out of her mouth. “I’m yours, too, you know?”

In one fluid motion he kicked off his pants and boxers and _pounced_ , settling himself between her legs as he yanked her shirt over her head.

“Prove it,” he teased, tugging down her yoga pants and dipping his fingers inside, his light touch doing _nothing_ to ease the throbbing between her legs.

He was taking it slow, probably reveling in her confession that wasn’t really a confession, but Emma was _impatient_. She flipped them over, shedding the rest of her clothes with zero finesse. Once she was bare, she climbed back onto him, thinking of nothing but his hands gliding down her body and finally through her hair as she kissed down his chest and closed her lips around his length. _Oh, she’d prove it all right._

-

They’d had to settle for _delivery_ pizza. Which had _not_ been Killian’s intention. Store pizza was greasy and cheap and you just can’t trust the idiots working afterschool jobs at the pizza joints to not fuck something up. But Emma had properly distracted him with relationship talk and then with her beautiful body and while he wasn’t complaining about _that_ , he _was_ complaining about the subpar pizza he was currently chewing (and chewing and _chewing_ – was it made of fucking cardboard?).

“Oh, calm down you pizza snob,” Emma said, bumping her elbow against his to distract him from his pizza scowling. “We’ll have the good stuff tomorrow. Or the day after? Whenever we’re both free. Hey! Maybe I’ll even make it for you. That’s a thing girlfriends do, right? They make their boyfriends pizza?”

Emma’s smile was flirty and deceptively innocent, and his answering grin was probably no less goofy. As much as he’d avoided using those particular labels before – especially when she’d asked an hour or so earlier – it still made his heart _skip_ to actually hear it out loud.

Emma Swan was his _girlfriend_.

(Finally.)

“Aye, you can make me pizza. Just… nothing weird. I know you like cinnamon on everything, but maybe not as a pizza topping, OK?”

It was a stupid joke. It was barely even _funny_. But Emma’s giggles rang through her tiny bedroom, her carefree mood not in any way decreased because of his eyeroll-worthy comment, and Killian was sure he could spend every single day like this one and it would be all right by him.

 

Once the pizza was eaten and the mess cleaned, they (unfortunately) had to shift their focus from pleasure to _business_. Their first big post-Ruby excursion was scheduled for that Saturday, both Will and Belle on board with Emma and Killian. This one was a small fundraising event for the local library, a chance to “test out” the potential for more educationally minded events in their future. Emma had suggested that he even create a whole section of his website and social media campaign to highlight what he could do for school groups or summer camps, but he wasn’t sure. He was going to be doing so much on his own – even though she’d agreed they were, indeed, in a relationship, he still knew she was hesitant to get too involved on the business partner side of things. He didn’t want to get in over his head and end up drowning all because he listened to her brilliant ideas and he sucked at the follow through. So they were going to talk about what exactly he could do, how he could ease into this if it turned out that Saturday went well. So Saturday – ensuring it was a success was tonight’s priority number one.

It was terrifying, really. Far more terrifying than the frat boys. Because of course they were pains in the arse, but he’d been a sodding git a time or two himself – he knew how to handle _them_. But kids? Or even adults who were looking to better themselves, have a nice family afternoon and learn a thing or two about the sea? There was actual _pressure_ there. People paying attention to him for more than the pirate façade, his pretty face, his potential to help someone have a good time.

He loved kids. Well, the _concept_ of them anyway. But the way they _actually_ listen to every word you say, the way they remember and care? It’s the scariest thing in the world. And he didn’t know if he was ready for it – or if he ever would be.

But Emma was right. It was a perfect market segment for the business. The groups were big; the risks were lower than when _party_ was the main goal. And they made a good team, he and Emma. They would find a way.

“So Belle has been doing a lot of reading and she had a few different ideas of how she could play this. Do you think we should go with fact – something like the facts around actual historical piracy – or should we go with fiction – and have her talk about _Old Man and the Sea_ or some shit?”

“Not much of a reader, are you, love?”

“Not _that_ kind of book.”

“Then what kind do you like? The ones with Fabio on the front cover?”

“HAH. No, thank you. Why would I need some poor excuse for _romance_ when I have you?” Emma’s eyes were playing at _lusty_ , but he could tell she was still fighting to stay on task when she switched moods _fast_. “But that’s not the point! Fact or fiction, Captain?”

“I say let’s go with fact on this one. We have the pirate-y outfits, so let’s build from what we know. If we keep doing these kinds of outings, _then_ we can change up our style.”

“Perfect! That’s settled. Now for the food and drinks…”

-

It was a long night of details. Emma was constantly texting Will and Belle with updated plans for Saturday, emailing the catering company, adding reminders to her phone (and Killian’s). It was stressful to be taking on something so different, but Killian deserved to have a business that was reputable and profitable and involved a hell of a lot less puking off the side of his boat (and consoling rejected men – he was up to _three_ of those now, Benny being the only rejected proposal, but two very unceremonious breakups followed him). Killian was stressed about his insurance policy and was paying a friend of a former coworker to serve as his legal team, but that kind of stress was one Emma couldn’t alleviate and it was stressing _her_ out in turn.

Everything was _going_ to be OK. It just wasn’t there _yet_.

But _this_ stress was something new and different. It was a completely different level of investment for Emma than she’d ever experienced before. When she was a bail bondsperson she was dedicated and smart and, yeah, there were days that stressed her to no end. But they were flashes in the pan, so to speak. Just fleeting moments that were frustrating for one reason or another; once they were resolved, the stress was gone.

Helping Killian – that was a completely new level of pressure. It was the kind that was never-ending because it was important every single moment. And it wasn’t just important to the vague concept of _justice_ or to her own wallet – it was important for Killian’s livelihood, his sanity, his ego, his reputation.

And it was important to her, too.

Them. It was important to _them_.

(She was part of a plural. Holy fucking _shit_.)

It was a surprising feeling – it probably would be for quite a long time – but it wasn’t panic-worthy. It wasn’t _up-and-run_ worthy. It was just a stressor that she was absolutely, 100% willing to cope with. To make her better.

To make _them_ better.

“We make a pretty good team, you know that?” She asked, realizing she’d been silent just a bit too long.

“I was thinking the very same thing not long ago.” He leaned in to give her a chaste kiss –

And then he promptly yawned into her mouth.

She chuckled at his exhaustion – really it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen asleep while she was playing him ‘soundtrack options’ for Saturday – but suddenly his face went serious. Had he forgotten something important? Was there some detail she’d fucked up that she couldn’t fix in the next few days? The dizzying sadness of saying goodbye to Ruby was sure to have made her sloppy – she should have made better checklists, should have –

“Uh, love, I think we have one more serious discussion for the evening.”

“About…?”

“Well, love, I’m very tired – ”

“No shit, Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes both outwardly and on the inside. _Missed opportunity to call him Captain Obvious right there._

And Killian rolled his eyes right back. “Let me finish! I’m very tired, _and_ I was about to head back into your bedroom, drop my pants and go to sleep. But then I wondered: how do we do this? My first instinct is to stay with you, but do we need to have more _space_ than that? I don’t want you waking me up at 3am to kick me out because I’m annoying you. Do we need some boundaries since we’re going to be spending so much time together… elsewhere?” Killian took her hand in his, rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, willing her to look him in the eyes.

Logically, she had no reason to panic, but the panic instinct is a tough one to shake. She knew, _knew_ the only reason he was even _asking_ was for her benefit. He was worried that _she_ might need space. But she couldn’t help but worry he was the one wanting space. Only 3 hours into their official relationship.

“Do _you_ want… space?” Her voice was small and she wasn’t proud of it.

At that, he squeezed her hands tighter, shaking them a bit. “No! God, no. _Fuck space_ , that’s my motto for you and me. But I just – I just wanted to ask. I didn’t want you to feel like I was suffocating you if I curled up next to you tonight – or any night – without asking first. So this is me… asking.”

_See, no reason to freak out, you crazy lady_. He was, as ever, following her lead.

“I appreciate you asking, but you really don’t have to. I’m sorry I got weird about us working together. I was trying to jump off a bridge we haven’t even gotten to yet. And might not ever. So let’s just… do this naturally? If you want to stay, then stay. Or if you want to come over, then come over. If it gets to be too much, well that’s a problem for Future Emma and Future Killian, don’t you think?” Her ability to pivot from terrified to joking was surprising to even her, and the pride in Killian’s eyes at her obvious shift made her feel lighter than she could explain. And she shouldn’t be proud of it – shouldn’t be happy about her own self-worth being tied to another human being. But love wasn’t weakness. It was strength.

And she was strong.

(They both were.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think! I was on the fence about this chapter so feedback is appreciated :)


	20. Teach You a Thing or Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to update! I hope that there's someone out there who's still with me as I finally, FINALLY bring this tale to its end in the next month or so.

There was once a time when the only thing in the world Killian longed for was a chance to spend his sunrises on the deck of his ship. In those days, sure, he was always _up_ before the sunrise. But by the time the sun was actually gracing the sky with its presence, he was locked away in a building using his brain (and his charms) to turn a one million dollars into twelve before he’d even had his second round of coffee.

That version of him had imagined a perfect life of leisure, of enjoying every moment, of taking the time to actually _feel_ the moment the sun cracked through the clouds, over the horizon, and its beams started dancing their way over the waves breaking against the shore, the ships, the rocks leading up to lighthouses.

But, like any good fantasy, that wasn’t fucking real. No, the non-Wall Street life might have led to sunrises on his ship, but hell if he actually _noticed_ them.

He’d been up since approximately 4:30 AM when his alarm roused him, he kissed the forehead of his grumbling but still sleeping girlfriend, shuffled to his own apartment to get ready, and set out for the docks. Today was the day he’d been preparing for, the day he finally tested if he could be more than just a good time. And it was bloody terrifying.

Suddenly his ship looked like a damn bobby trap. He was panicking about every board, every stair, every possible place a child or parent could trip. He scrubbed every spot that he’d recalled some frat boy may have spilled his beer. He sprayed so much Lysol that the inside of his nostrils had to have been disinfected, and he’d started losing track of the things he’d actually come to the ship to take care of.

Around 9 AM he was chugging coffee and re-reading Belle’s pirate research - attempting to memorize it all despite the fact that he wasn’t even going to be the one reciting it – when he uttered a sentence he’d never once imagined falling from his lips.

“Ugh, I should have stayed on Wall Street.”

The sun was getting in his eyes and his phone’s brightness didn’t go any higher and he was just about to turn toward the door and head below deck when a seemingly ethereal voice ripped him from his stress-induced alternate reality.

“What was that, sailor?” Emma called, her smirk and eyebrow-lift painfully obvious before Killian had even looked at her. When he finally did turn around to face her, she was casually leaned against the hull, arms crossed and sunlight glinted off her bedhead. She’d only tossed on a pair of yoga pants and an old t-shirt before venturing down, but she was still so stunning that Killian was at least 75 percent dumbfounded at the reminder that this woman was actually _his_.

“Sorry, love, I… this whole thing is getting to me.”

“What do you mean, _whole thing_?” she asked, pushing off the wood and slowly approaching him, bakery bag now visible in her right hand.

“This!” he shouted, his arms flailing in all directions before he nervously scratched behind his ear.

Fuck. The stress really was getting to him if he’d lost all ability to form coherent sentences. That was his specialty, after all. Especially when it was for Emma’s benefit.

“OK, sweetheart. You need a doughnut. And a break. And perhaps to have woken someone this morning to come with you so someone could have stopped you from going off the deep end. Perhaps literally.” She motioned at the cleaning products precariously perched on the ship’s edge, a chore he didn’t realize he’d never finished.

“Emma, what if…”

“What if, what? What if today doesn’t go well? Then we don’t do another event like this one! It’s a trial run, Killian, not the _Hunger Games_. There’s no life and death here. Unless you worry yourself to death, which I’m currently legitimately worried about.” Emma let the pastry bag fall to the deck and closed the distance between them, wrapping him up in one of the tightest hugs he’d ever been on the receiving end of. “Please, babe, calm your shit.”

Killian nuzzled his nose into her messy hair, inhaling the smell of her shampoo mixed with the supreme pizza they’d cooked together the night before. “Always a way with words, Swan.”

“Learned it from the best!” she gave him a quick peck on the cheek before retrieving the treats from the floor and (metaphorically) putting on her _business_ hat. “OK, Jones, we’ve got a checklist to take care of.”

-

There was something insanely adorable about how much this man _cared_. You see, there was a day when Emma had truly thought that anyone caring about anything to the level that Killian did was one of two things: either it was all a show, or it was for personal gain. No one actually possessed that level of passion in their hearts and kindness in their souls (cheesy). Nope, the only possible conclusion was that they were faking it, were reaping benefits from it, were just playing a game.

But Killian played no games.

(OK, he was pretty boss at Scrabble, but that was beside the point.)

He put his whole heart into everything he did. He was genuine and true and actually honest-to-God invested in the things he loved. She’d known this, of course. It had really been the only reason he was able to scale her insanely tall and quite barbarous walls – because she knew it wasn’t an act. But even that had a certain level of selfishness to it. _He got the girl_.

And, yeah, if this event went well then there’d be opportunity for money. But there already _was_ opportunity enough for payouts that required far less prep and very little effort. No, this man actually _wanted_ the events that took more brain power, that _gave something back_.

There was a reason he’d been grumbling about wishing he was back on Wall Street when she’d dropped in on him that morning. $12 million was nothing to a billionaire, not in the end. But one really kickass educational event to a kid? It could actually be the thing that inspired them to _do something_ with their lives. And that level of importance wasn’t lost on Killian.

Or Emma.

So while she found herself many times that day just stopping to admire his panic, adorable as it was based on how it stemmed from his truly admirable compassion, she was still fully focused on the task at hand – making the fundraiser a success and getting the kids involved. It was time to make some good memories for them (which was clearly a divergence from many of their previous excursions, as she’s _positive_ a certain percentage of Killian’s past clientele likely didn’t even _remember_ a good portion of theirs – fucking rum).

Belle and Will had made it to the ship by about noon, two hours before the fundraiser was to begin. They had their pirate outfits stowed below deck – they were far too uncomfortable and constricting for the preparations, after all. So the four of them went about their assigned tasks: Emma was decorating and waiting for the caterers to show, Belle was laying out the grab bags and the games the librarian had approved, Will was organizing the release forms for photography and liability, and Killian was readying the ship and plotting their course.

Around one they all went to dress (in shifts, of course – no impropriety was to occur on Killian’s ship this day, he repeatedly announced), and guests began arriving around 1:30. Killian would welcome them aboard his ship, give them the general rundown of the afternoon’s activities, and direct them to where they could put their things. Emma provided the kids with eye patches and plastic hooks and other play-pirate garb while they all awaited departure time. Belle and Will were truly impressive in their abilities to connect with the kids, even before the actual “teaching” or games began. They were seamlessly interacting with them, engaging their questions, and keeping excitement up. Once they’d announced the beginning of the excursion and Killian got to the actual _sailing_ part, she’d already heard the adults offer a multitude of praises to him about how surprisingly professional everything was and the high hopes they had for the day.

Emma could see the pride beaming from his (heavily eyelinered) eyes, but she could also see that fear inside, the reminder of the “pressure” of the day. Obviously it wouldn’t be very professional at all if she were to use her usual tactics for calming him down, so she nudged Will and asked him to go reassure his _mate_ that everything was going to be just fine while she took Will’s place among the children.

They spent a few more minutes play-fighting and chatting and just letting the kids get comfortable before Belle launched into the _actual educational segment_ and it was almost jarring how quickly the kids sat down and just started… absorbing. They were fascinated by Belle’s stories, by the tales of piracy up and down the coast, by the facts about what exactly was being stolen and traded. She was sure to explain that pirates _weren’t actually cool dudes_ most of the time, but she did tell some tales of men who identified as pirates who did all they could to interfere with slave trading, and while that seems like a subject far too dark and uncomfortable for children of that age, Belle’s delivery of it was just so… appropriate. At times Emma realized she was acting far more like a guest than like one of the afternoon’s _presenters_ when she noticed her slack-jawed expression in the reflection of a parent’s sunglasses, but fuck it – she was _impressed_.

Killian really had no reason to worry at all.

-

The kids had been amazing.

Belle had been amazing.

The food had been better than usual and the parents had been calm and patient and the games had been an unbridled success both in _fun_ and in _fundraising_ and really overall the day had been just damn near perfect.

(Seems like he’d had no reason to worry at all.)

(Or perhaps his _worry_ had been the key to their success – bet Emma had never thought of _that_.)

Killian was just bidding farewell to the last of the afternoon’s patrons as they all disembarked the ship when he felt a pair of arms slink around him from behind.

“Swan, they can still _see_ us!”

“Killian, for god’s sake, I’m hugging you, not blowing you. Calm down.”

A few parents and kids turned back to wave at them as they left and Emma and Killian both waved back – Belle shouting a few last-minute reminders at the kids as they left (she was _such_ a kid person, it was insane).

“All went well, I’d say?” Will commented as he gathered trash and left-behind pirate accessories.

“More than well! That was fantastic, Killian. I think you’ve got a strong future ahead as an outlet for fun and education.” Belle was still using _teacher voice_ – whether intentionally or by accident – but Killian was so truly proud of them that he couldn’t find it in himself to mock her (good-naturedly, of course).

“Aye, it was a good day. I think we’ll be able to do many more like it. Well, hopefully, anyway. Emma, did you get a good amount of pictures? I feel like we should probably post one right away. Ruby said that was what I should do, anyway…”

“Already ahead of you!” Emma practically squealed, ripping her arms from his waist and pulling her cell phone from its holster at her hip. “I think _this_ one is best. What do you guys think?”

Emma held her phone up to the three of them, a draft already saved on Killian’s Instagram. The photo captured a lovely moment between Belle and a local set of siblings (kids Belle herself had helped to place with their long-lost father just months before), their eyes bright and excited as she explained to them the differences in the replica coins Killian was pulling from his “pirate chest.” He actually looked _calm_ in the photo, which didn’t seem possible considering his internal panic, but for just a moment he could see what probably everyone else had all afternoon – that they’d really done this thing 100% … and loved every minute of it.

“Oh, sure, you pick a photo without me in it,” Will griped, but Emma just rolled her eyes.

“It’s perfect, love,” Killian assured her, taking the phone from her hand to post the photo before she let anyone make her doubt her wonderful Instagram skills.

“Now, who’s hungry?” Belle asked, Emma so distracted by the notifications pouring in on Killian’s phone that he didn’t think she’s actually heard her.

Yeah, they all had good reason to be proud.

-

She’d been _starving_. Between leaving the apartment abruptly that morning and then spending most of her pre-excursion energy on making sure Killian didn’t lose his marbles, it had been a long day for Emma. A long day in which she forgot to actually _eat_ (not that she _ever_ overate on pirate days, not with _that_ corset to deal with). So when Killian gently poked her to ask if she agreed with Belle’s suggestion they get food, she may have actually _moaned_.

(Will had a field day with that one.)

The four of them cleaned up as best they could and switched back into appropriate clothing before venturing off to a pizza parlor not far from Killian’s ship.

(Yes, they’d had pizza the night before, but Emma could probably eat pizza every day. Well, as long as she still got some grilled cheeses in there. And onion rings. Damn, she was hungry.)

Predictably, they spent the first half hour or so going over the afternoon, sharing funny stories of kids asking awkward questions ( _why did my mom and dad laugh so much when Captain Killian said_ pillaging and plundering _earlier?_ ) and all the moments that made them super proud ( _the kid actually wanted me to read him another story!_ ). They talked a little about how they’d change up their style in the future, about how they’d like to move into the fictional stuff and even into the more sciency things like marine biology. Killian seemed most excited to schedule nighttime excursions that would allow them to talk astronomy, but Emma had to step in as the super buzzkill on that one since they had no way of predicting if the stars would even be _visible_.

Silence befell the group of them when the pizza was placed at the table, no one even bothering with using a plate before they dug in. Will, who liked ranch dressing on his pizza, actually poured it right on top. Belle scolded him for his inability to eat vegetables without and excessive amount of fat, but it was clear to anyone with eyes that she didn’t actually _care_. Killian had said he was in the mood for _spicy_ so half the pizza had buffalo sauce _and_ jalapeños, and Emma was 99% sure she was going to start sweating if she ate it, but she dove in anyway, pride lighting up in Killian’s eyes that he’d seemingly made an influence on her “delicate palate” (he’d called it that once and to her chagrin, she realized she was an awfully _plain_ girl when it came to food).

When the pizza was all gone and the beer almost drunk, Belle had raised her bottle. “To many more adventures?”

The other three of them raised their bottles in return, clinking them together, before Killian added, “and to many more double dates after?”

Emma panicked for a moment, worried that the label might cause tension from the other side of the table, but Will simply responded “to many more” as he and Belle looked at each other with a smile.

 

“But we juuuuuust finished planning and executing something. Can’t you take a damn break?” Killian whined as Emma pulled out her laptop and perched herself on her bed.

“No, Ruby has a kind of busy schedule. I’m going to need to Skype her tonight to talk about Mary Margaret’s shower or else I’ll have to wait until next week. And it’s important! You were the one going on about all the technology that will keep me connected with Ruby. Now it’s time to _let me connect_.”

“Oh, I was intending quite a lot of connection tonight, love. But it did not involve your computer. I mean unless you’re into the whole _filming it_ thing, which I actually could get behind if you just make super sure to turn off your iCloud…”

“Killian!”

“Come on, Emma! We deserve a nice… release.”

She truly hated to turn him down – or, more accurately, put him off until later – after all, they certainly did earn some quality _naked and alone_ time. But she really did need to talk to Ruby, both for her planning abilities and her general friendship. Emma hadn’t actually gotten to tell anyone yet that she and Killian had officially crossed that barrier into _labels_ and _never a night apart_ and _partners_ and forgive her if she just needed to gush for a moment.

(And then fuck her boyfriend _after_.)

“We’ll get that release, Jones. Just… be patient? I promise, it won’t be more than an hour. Then you can have me however you want.”

“ _Fine_. I’m going to … I don’t know. Go for a walk or something.”

Killian leaned down and kissed her forehead but the disappointed wrinkle never left his face. “Oh, come on. I’m not asking that much of you! Just an hour.”

“I know, I know. I just like to whine. I’ll be back soon, Swan.”

And with that he scurried out the door and Emma clicked on Ruby’s contact info, ready to plan a celebration for Mary Margaret while simultaneously celebrating her own _actually-making-normal-relationship-progression_.

(Ruby was going to be so proud.)

-

He hadn’t actually planned on going to see Dave. He’d thought it was best to use that time to check up on the ship, make sure he hadn’t left any messes that couldn’t be cleaned tomorrow. He figured it was a semi-clear night; he might look at the stars some and take deep breaths and not think about the hundred dirty things he so desperately wanted to do to his girlfriend.

 _His girlfriend_.

He’d of course been using the term in his head (with glee) and had said it to Emma. But in the midst of such a hectic week, he hadn’t actually used the term with _anyone else_. Not even Belle or Will, with whom he and Emma had spent much of their past few days.

And now the two of _them_ were off doing… well, _something_ together, so he couldn’t share the news with them now. But he _had_ gotten a text from Dave about maybe signing up for a darts tournament the week after. Which meant he was probably just hanging out at home scrolling through his Facebook feed.

And suddenly Killian’s feet were taking him to the closest thing Emma had to family.

 

Mary Margaret had been surprised but not displeased when she opened her front door to find Killian on the other side – which had been a relief. Dropping by unannounced to the home of a pregnant woman hadn’t been his best decision that day, so he was glad (and lucky) for the welcoming smile he was met with.

As he’d suspected, David was sitting on the couch, baby book on his lap but staring very pointedly at the screen of his phone. “He’s watching Nanny-cam videos and trying to convince me we can’t ever leave the baby alone with anyone who isn’t family. And he’s not even out yet!” Mary Margaret rubbed her swollen belly. “So that’s how life is in the Nolan household tonight. How are you, Killian?”

At that David finally looked up from the phone. “Killian! What brings you here?”

“Oh, just fancied a walk and thought I’d say hello.”

“Ah! Let me make you a drink. I don’t actually have any rum, Killian…”

“You know I’m not _actually_ a pirate, love?”

“In her defense,” David interjected just as Killian was about to launch into a further complaint about the misconception. “You _are_ still wearing eyeliner.”

 _Shit_. “Oh, that. Yes, we had our first ever _educationally minded fundraiser_ on my ship today. It was apparently such a success that I decided not to wash my face before wandering the neighborhood.”

“Well what do you say, is iced tea good enough for your non-pirate alter ego, captain?”

“Sounds delightful.”

As Mary Margaret headed into the kitchen and Dave invited Killian to sit, he finally started feeling almost _nervous_ about having come here. Emma may or may not have told them herself. Was it even his place to spill _her_ beans? Not that it was much to spill – a label isn’t anything but a word. But that word actually said a lot, considering the long road Killian and Emma had both taken in order to get there.

“Is something wrong?” David asked, after what was probably an uncomfortable silence.

“No, quite the opposite actually. I guess my actual reason in coming here was to share some good news. But now I’m not sure it’s mine to share.”

“I swear, Jones, if you knocked Emma up I will punch you so hard…”

“Mate! No! No. We are not at that point in our relationship, and even if we were that would be our decision and not something worthy of you punching me. But no. I just wanted to tell you that Emma had actually asked me sort of… where we stood. And we decided that we’re _official_ , I suppose you’d say it. _Exclusive._ _Boyfriend_ and _girlfriend_. And now that I’m saying it out loud it sounds juvenile, but it felt like a success and I just wanted to share. So… I did.”

David was oddly quiet but his anger had entirely melted away, a smile slowly growing on his face. “You know, that might actually be a bigger step for a relationship with Emma. I’m proud of you, man. Both of you. You’re… good for her. You’re good together. It’s all very good.”

“What’s good?” Mary Margaret chirped as she came back to the den, a tray with a pitcher and three glasses balancing against her slightly protruding waist.

“Emma and Killian. They’re official! By Emma’s request, even!” David announced with what seemed like actual, genuine happiness.

Mary Margaret smiled as she put the tray down on the coffee table, exhaling long and deep. “Finally.”


	21. Vacation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super busy and pretty sick, so I haven't had a chance to respond to last week's comments but please just know how thankful I am for every single one of you who have read and let me know what you thought! It's keeping me motivated and I very much appreciate it. 
> 
> Side note: please forgive any typos! I thankfully caught the slip-up where I said 'kill' instead of 'kiss,' but I didn't do a thorough edit. Sorry >.<

Ruby hadn’t been gone that long, and yet somehow Emma entirely forgot how ridiculously persuasive (manipulative) the girl could be when she was really and truly motivated.

Which is the short story of how in a Skype call meant to serve as a planning meeting for Mary Margaret’s upcoming baby shower, Emma Swan somehow ended up agreeing to visit Ruby. In Seattle. In two weeks.

(Killian was going to kill her, since she’d kind of offered him up as her copilot – after hacking into his iPad to ensure that he didn’t have any scheduled excursions, that is.)

Ruby had acted almost surprised that Emma had been so easily swayed, but that probably was part of the persuasion process – _start with guilt and end with innocent surprise… Ruby might have said that to Emma once._

Manipulative wolf girl. Oh well. Maybe it would be fun?

(If Killian didn’t kill her.)

(She’d definitely been watching too much iZombie.)

In an effort to butter up her recently labeled _boyfriend_ , Emma made some hot cocoa (Goldschlagger in hers; Kahlua in his), lit a few candles, and slipped on a little lacy number she’d ordered from Amazon in preparation for whatever romantic milestone/holiday she’d inevitably not realize had arrived until the day of (or, in this case, the preemptive groveling for forgiveness she was about to embark on).

Killian quietly opened her front door only about 5 minutes later (thank _god_ or the hot chocolate would have been more like _lukewarm chocolate_ ) and the way his eyes so very cartoonishly bugged out of his skull was both a major boost to her self-esteem and proof that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to make him not hate her after all.

“Swan! My god, are you trying to kill me, love?” Killian’s eyes were still fairly buggy, roving over the royal blue lace in shock and obvious appreciation.

“Is it working?” Emma smiled and did a little twirl that her past-self might have punched her for, but fuck it – she was _happy_. And happy sometimes made us do embarrassing things.

Killian approached her slowly, grasping her waist firmly when he was close enough, his other hand caressing her cheek, her neck, the swells of her breasts. Goosebumps were cropping up all across the pale expanse of her skin and Killian was smiling to himself as he watched them, his own self-esteem clearly getting a boost from _her_ reaction to _him_.

It was all so ridiculous. One year before now Emma was such a different person. A valuable one, don’t get her wrong. She was _never_ nothing. But the fact that she could laugh so much easier now – giggle, even – the fact that she so easily opened herself up to embarrassment or ridicule on a daily basis, truly lacking any fear that she would actually be subjected to any of those bad feelings… it was freeing on a level she’d never imagined. She’d always scoffed at the girls who chose a man based on the concept of “safety” – always assuming that meant either the chivalrous “he’ll protect me from physical threats” or the gold-digging “he’ll pay for everything so I don’t have to worry about ending up in a trailer park,” but she’d never even considered the deeper level of safety that another person could provide you.

Killian was the guy who’d always put a smile on her face. The one who would never judge her. Who would still look at her like the sun shone out her ass, even on the days she was having a damn meltdown at her friend’s funeral (thanks for pointing that one out, Ruby). Killian was her _home_ , the partner she’d never thought to ask for who made her feel safe in being herself.

(She loved him, that much was fairly obvious, despite her hesitancy to actually state it.)

Killian leaned in, brushing his nose against hers while still staring straight into her eyes (and probably her fucking soul, while he was at it). “Shall we take this to the bedroom, my lovely?”

His gentle touches and heart-stopping gaze nearly had her unable to _breathe_ let alone remember anything else about her day, but thankfully a chill ran up her spine in that very moment, the hot cocoa she’d prepared rushing back into her overly-stimulated brain. “Ah! No. I mean _yes_ , but I have treats first.”

“Please, lord, tell me it’s whipped cream.”

(She rolled her eyes but stored that comment in the back of her head for the romantic holiday/milestone that no longer had a surprise piece of lingerie prepared for it.)

Emma placed a quick kiss on the tip of his nose (leaving behind a little Rudolph-like lipstick smear) and retrieved the mugs from her kitchen – of course making sure to sway her hips just a little more than was strictly necessary.

The two of them shuffled into the bedroom, sipping at their delicousness as Killian sighed in approval. “So what’s the occasion?”

Emma coughed a little as she tried to swallow. “Occasion?”

“I know all these good looks can trick a person into thinking I don’t have a brain, love, but I can still sense a bribe. Not that I’m complaining. Let me tell you, whatever it is that you want, it’s yours.” Killian took another gulp of hot cocoa before setting it down on Emma’s nightstand, her still unread _Rosie Effect_ book serving as a coaster. “Unless you want a pony. He wouldn’t have much room to wander and I’m not too keen on cleaning up piles of crap larger than most normal pets.”

Welp, for being as good at reading people as she was, you’d think she’d be better at _not being read_. No such luck.

“I – well, it’s not a bribe! I mean, it’s just a… suggestion? Ugh. Why couldn’t you just let me get through the sex part before questioning my motives. Now I’m feeling all guilty.”

“Emma, love, it’s fine! To be fair, I was trying to get to the sex part. And then you gave me hot cocoa and my curiosity got to me. I’ve already said yes, so just fill me in on what I’ve said yes to, and we can fuck ‘til sunrise.”

Killian wasn’t usually one for being crass – no, that was mostly her job – but ridiculous mind-reader that he was probably knew she needed some comic relief, and _damn it_ , it was working.

Emma cracked a smile, but tried (unsuccessfully) to cover it with a gulp of cocoa. “Well, Ruby called. As you know. And we were talking about Mary Margaret’s thing and then suddenly she was making me feel guilty that she’s all alone even though she has Whale and her ability to make friends is clearly far too honed for her to actually be spending all of her time alone and she asked me if I’d come visit her and I _swear_ I said no but then somehow it was a yes and then I’d agreed that you’d come with me and I honestly don’t know how she did it, but I agreed, and it’s probably too early in the relationship for me to be making decisions for you and I swear I can tell her that we can’t if you don’t want to go, and… ”

“Emma!” Killian cut her off, an adorable wrinkle on his forehead actually catching her attention mid-rant. “I think Ruby is better at manipulating than you think, love. She asked me about visiting her before she’d ever even moved. And she _insisted_ on _these_ dates,” he continued, pointing at the blocked off dates in his phone’s _work_ calendar. “She’d instructed me that I should surprise you. But apparently she’d thought better of the surprise and went for guilting you into agreeing instead. Smart move, really. You’re not the biggest fan of surprises.”

“Hey! I can be… spontaneous.”

“Maybe with lingerie. Not generally with the bigger things.” Killian tugged at the little bow between her breasts, the sincerity in his eyes keeping her from saying anything snarky along the lines of _have you really known me long enough to know that kind of information?_ (After all, he _did_ know her that well, which was scary enough in itself.)

“She’s insane. I swear, we’re going to end up having to testify because she conned somebody into doing something insane. Like stealing her an airplane or something.”

“She does have a way with words, I’ll give you that. But enough about Ruby… I’d like to enjoy my entirely unnecessary bribe now.” Killian crawled over her and lay her down on the bed, his lips on her neck enough to make her forget all about the whole _manipulated by her best friend_ thing and to just enjoy the moment.

(And while he didn’t exactly make good on that whole _fucking until dawn_ thing, they certainly shared an exhilarating hour or so before comfortably curling up together and sleeping until well after sunrise.)

-

When he awoke, there was tousled blonde hair up his nose and a tiny puddle of drool on his chest.

Sure, not the most romantic of mornings, but there was something unfathomably adorable about waking up the woman you love sprawled out in all her very un-sexy morning-after glory, still donning the extremely sexy blue teddy from the night before.

She looked so peaceful, which wasn’t anything new. Even though it seemed oddly self-congratulating of him to think about, it was an objective _fact_ that Emma was far… _happier_ recently. She seemed free and unafraid in a manner that was hard to describe. Because she’d _never_ been afraid. Not of the scary stuff. But of drooling on a guy’s chest? Yeah, he could see that being a nightmare of hers.

And yet he knew that when she woke up and noticed her disheveled appearance and the so very unladylike appearance she was sporting, she’d probably just blush and smile and ask him what was for breakfast.

(He really couldn’t be prouder.)

Apparently he’d done good with the sex the night before because Emma was still _out_. Even when he slightly adjusted her so he could reach his phone, she was still sleeping soundly, little hiccup-y snores the only sign she’d had any awareness of being moved. So Killian just opened up his news apps and played a few games and just after scoring his second Yahtzee against _foundmyprincecharming_ (Mary Margaret), Emma finally yawned and stretched and joined the land of the living.

“Sleep well, princess?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, snagging a tissue from her nightstand to wipe up her drool off his chest (complete with several trademarked Emma Swan eye-rolls). “I’m thinking waffles?”

 

Kilian really outdid himself that morning, trying out the _egg and hash browns_ waffle recipe he’d found on Pinterest while he was walking home from Dave and Mary Margaret’s the prior evening. Emma was still wearing the nipple-baring lacy lingerie she’d slept in ( _what? It was expensive, Jones_ , _and I look adorable; um, I don’t think adorable is quite the word there_ ), and Killian was in his boxers and a very old Star Wars t-shirt he’d forgotten he even owned, when a knock came at the door.

After a silent conversation where the two of them agreed (with their eyes) that Emma was clearly in the _less acceptable for visitors_ state of dress, she shuffled into the bathroom and Killian went to answer the door.

“Erm, can I help you?” Killian asked, confused about the woman at the door. He’d never seen her before – and he was friendly enough with neighbors to recognize most faces, even of neighbors’ visitors – and she clearly looked like it wasn’t _him_ she’d been searching for, either.

“Uh, yes. I’m looking for Jefferson. Is this his building? The last guy whose door I knocked on told me he didn’t know anyone by that name, but this is definitely the address listed…”

Jefferson? That dude never had visitors. Unless you counted his seeming multiple personalities that dropped by on different occasions depending on his mood. “He’s upstairs. I don’t actually know which number his apartment is? But it’s directly above mine, which is the apartment next door. Might I… uh, ask who you are? Jefferson can be a bit unstable, and I’m just not sure you want to drop by unannounced.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. I was married to the guy.” The woman rolled her eyes – seemingly at herself – and muttered a hurried _thanks_ to Killian before rushing toward the stairs.

Crazy dudes get married, too – who’d have thought?

When the door was closed and the coast was clear, he knocked on the bathroom door to alert Emma it was safe to exit. She emerged with a face so yellow he’d thought maybe she turned into a fairy tale villain while she was in there… before noticing the faint outline of smears. “What? I was stuck in there anyway. I figured I’d moisturize,” Emma clarified. “So, Jefferson had a wife. Who’d have thought?”

“That’s what I said! Well, thought. In my head. Anyway… yeah. She looked so normal, too!”

“I wonder if he was always that crazy. Maybe after they were together he got into drugs or something?”

“I think you’ve been watching too much Dateline, darling. Now are we going to get ready for our long day of excursion planning or are you just going to continue having sexy spa day?”

“Hmmm. Maybe both!” Emma said with a wink, before leaning over to kiss his cheek (leaving mud mask goo behind in the process). “Plus we need to plan our vacation, too.”

“Aye, we do. Can you at least change your outfit? We need to be thinking education and wholesome entertainment. Not _I’d rather be banging my girlfriend against the wall_.”

“Ohhhh, fine.”

-

It was so _fun_ planning stuff that actually mattered.

That was probably only the second scariest realization of the day. Because as crazy as it was that she was enjoying her little stint as _seafaring educator extraordinaire_ , she was even more shocked that she was also _preparing to take a trip with her boyfriend_ and, you know, not freaking out about it. All the details – about both things, really – were fairly boring. Flight times. Seating. Subjects of study. Games that promote information retention. There was nothing flashy about visiting your friend in the rainy Northwest, and there was no glory in teaching kids about the different types of creatures that live in the coastal Atlantic waters.

But somehow it was one of the most exciting days Emma could remember.

Ugh. At what point had she gone and gotten so boring herself? Probably somewhere near the time she shouted at her masturbating neighbor to keep his self-love to a lower decibel. And then proceeded to become his best friend. And then business partner. And then girlfriend.

(Hers might be the only love story to follow that specific trajectory in the history of ever. _The world’s most inappropriate fairy tale that still has a happy ending_.)

(Well, probably.)

Apparently in the midst of her little _thought train_ she’d started smiling like a goofball and apparently Killian had noticed because when she finally looked up from the _sailing term games for children_ Pinterest search on her phone (that she hadn’t entirely been paying attention to), the wannabe-pirate beside her was looking all too amused with himself. “Care to share something with the class, Miss Swan?”

“Not particularly, Mr. Hook. Now what do you think about teaching kids about the boat?”

“You mean _ship_.”

“I mean _thing that fucking floats_ , Killian. There’s a lot of useful information here about getting kids excited for the actual _means of transportation_ rather than about the pirate lore or the sea creatures. And it could be a big draw with parents and teachers because of the safety factor.”

Killian unsurprisingly agreed with her, and _surprisingly_ dropped the subject of her brief reverie, opting instead to talk out the logistics of deciding which themed educational events to offer on which days, which ones were best suited as part of a week-long “camp” and which were best all on their own. It was overwhelming the amount of decisions they needed to make _before they ever started promoting the events_ , but the sense of accomplishment once they’d come up with a tentative plan was kind of well worth it.

Plus, they rewarded themselves with an upgrade on their Seattle flight to _business_ class rather than how-the-fuck-do-tall-people-even-sit-in-these-seats, ahem, _economy_.

After a brief break for some food (and some heavy _snogging_ , as her British beau would say), it was time to get back down to business – and sadly not to defeat the Huns.

“God, I wish we could just cancel the rest of the booze cruises. I’m kind of sick of adults,” Emma groaned.

“I hear you, love. I feel like there’s got to be a way we can make them more tolerable. I mean, it’s not as if we’re going to entirely discontinue them just because we found another option.”

“I know, I know. But a girl can dream.” After years of bars and drunken one-nighters, you’d think Emma would be used to what accompanies her _bar wench_ ventures. But there are just some experiences that, once you’ve reached your fill of them, you just want to be _done_.

Killian started scratching down something on the pad of paper in front of him as Emma tried to put on her (metaphorical) big girl panties to deal with the now groan-worthy side of Killian’s business.

But when she spied what Killian had written, she laughed just enough to banish the dread and bring back some semblance of motivation:

_Drinking games we can play that will distract the asshats enough to not grope my girlfriend but will also not result in lasting damage to my mistress, the mighty ship_.

“Really, Jones, you’re insinuating that you cheat on me with the ship?”

“Ours is a forbidden love.”

-

The following weeks passed too quickly for Killian’s liking. It’s not that he wasn’t enjoying himself – he and Emma had gotten a remarkable amount of free time to binge some Netflix and try some recipes and play some video games that he never thought he’d be able to convince her to waste her time on. And the business was going well – Belle and Will had volunteered to come on a few of the non-educational excursions and somehow succeeded in helping the corporate stooges, stag parties, and high school reunions have a safe but jolly time. Killian had been finalizing his preparations to unveil the new “summer camp” line of activities and adventures aboard his ship, and Belle had been working tirelessly in getting partnerships with the library and the local schools who all trusted her for not only her own overachieving when she attended their establishments, but of course for her reputation as the fairest and yet most badass of cops on the force.

Will hadn’t been talking much about his courtship with the officer, but it was clear to anyone with eyes or ears that it must have been going well. Will was less of an ass by a mile – he never even made fun of Killian or Robin for bowing out of a football match viewing party for time with their respective ladies. No, he just “found other plans” as well and never mentioned it again.

So, yes, all of that was going just dandy. But it was nothing more than the calm before the storm.

You see, they were leaving for Seattle in the morning. Once they started their journey, they were booked solid – Ruby had convinced them to do anything and everything the city of Seattle had to offer, in addition to several activities of her own imagining. And as soon as they made it back from their jam-packed four-day vacation, it was an all-out sprint to get the next phase of their project moving. Killian needed to visit his kind-of lawyer again about the safety issues that come with hosting so many child-based events at sea. He needed to stop in to see his insurance guy again because apparently he’d missed at least _two_ out of fifty signatures on the packet of forms he’d had to overnight just so they’d get to the guy in time.

And Emma couldn’t come with him. No, she was going to be updating the website to have a whole section on the kid stuff. She was meeting with Syndey Glass from the local paper to talk about the changes they were making. She was basically playing IT, PR, and Accounting departments all at once and while she could have _tried_ to do it on the road, she wouldn’t have been half as productive. And they desperately needed productivity if they actually wanted his business to succeed.

Plus, there was the _other_ factor. The whole _trying to make Emma an official business partner without asking her first_ thing. He knew it wasn’t smart. And really it was reminding him way too much of that time that Ross stayed married to Rachel on _Friends_ like a daft, dumb fool. He was certainly risking quite the outburst if Emma were to find out, and he _knew_ it wasn’t right. But sometimes fear makes us do the dumbest things. And fearing that Emma might panic if they took their first couple-y vacation the same week he wanted to make them business-y partners… well, it wasn’t irrational.

(It’s really too bad there’s no such thing as lingerie for men. He needed an equivalent of Emma’s _sorry I agreed to a vacation without consulting you first_ teddy and boozy cocoa to match his _sorry I made you a business partner without consulting you first_ grovel-fest.)

(Because those two events were totally the same thing.)

(This wasn’t going to end well.)

_Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock_

Damn. With Emma generally on the same side of the wall as him, he’d almost forgotten how _thin_ the walls really were.

“Yes, love? I don’t believe I recognize that knocking pattern.”

“It’s _I don’t fucking know what to pack please come help me_.”

_Women_ , he mused, internally rolling his eyes, before he realized that _he_ in fact didn’t fucking know what to pack and also needed some help.

_What a pair_.

 

They were late to the airport. It wasn’t because they were too busy making love to notice the time. It wasn’t even because they were still picking out their clothes (nope, they’d done pretty well the night before, laying out their itinerary and counting up the outfits they’d need).

No, they were late because Emma fucking Swan couldn’t survive the drive to the airport without her signature hot cocoa with cinnamon from her favorite diner _in addition to_ an order of onion rings even though it was 6am. The argument with Granny lasted for at least a half hour, and the frying process takes some time as well and he suspected Granny delayed the process even further just to show Emma who’s boss, so to speak, and by the time they’d made it through security and were _literally running_ to their gate, Killian was about 75% positive their relationship wouldn’t last the trip.

Boarding had already begun when they finally located the _Seattle_ flight and Emma tried a smug “see, I told you we wouldn’t be late,” despite being so out of breath her words were almost incoherent, and Killian made the very mature decision to simply not speak to her until they landed.

Which led to her making the equally mature decision to make friends with every single person on their flight, _especially_ the good looking men, chatting away about how she and her _neighbor_ were taking a trip to visit their other former neighbor. A brown-haired college guy headed to a job interview bought her a drink and insinuated that her _travel companion_ was gay and Emma most certainly didn’t correct him and he _knew_ she was just doing it to get him to break his childish silence, but he was _tired_ and _cramped_ because even business class wasn’t exactly like sitting in a recliner and Killian inexplicably found himself tuning out Emma and her buddies and instead thinking of all the swear words he’d be lobbing at Ruby when she picked their sorry asses up from their airport.

There was definitely some reason this was her fault, after all, the meddler that she was.

Killian reached into Emma’s purse and took out some Benadryl – despite having no allergy problems at the moment – and took a nice snooze for the rest of the flight.

-

Men could be such assholes. Seriously, she’d already known this, but she’d been hoping to be, you know, proven wrong with maybe one specimen in the history of ever. But nope! They were all awful.

To be fair, _she_ was awful. Onion rings were not a morning necessity. But Emma ate her feelings and her feelings were stress and stress was best dealt with using fried deliciousness. So she stubbornly refused to leave Granny’s until she gave her a damn order of onion rings, _knowing_ at a certain point that they were going to be late. And Killian had been so patient and not screaming at her the way she would have been if it was _his_ stubbornness that had forced them into _running_ through the airport like the little boy from _Love, Actually_ but far less adorable.

And she shouldn’t have pulled an _I told you so_ routine when they didn’t miss the flight. But once the words fell out of her mouth, she couldn’t exactly shove them back in. She _could_ have apologized, but she was tired and stressed and for whatever reason her pride would _not_ let her back down from her own stupidity. So Killian steadfastly ignored her and she sent a group message to Mary Margaret and Ruby that she’d probably be single before the plane landed and she did her best to not go cry in the bathroom (a very un-Emma reaction that she was struggling to avoid).

So she made friends with some nice-enough strangers and flirted just a little more than she was actually OK with and finally when Killian had practically drugged himself to sleep, she admitted how much of an ass she really was.

(Not to Kilian, of course. He was drooling on her rolled-up sweatshirt she’d jammed between his head and the window. No, she’d decided apologizing to Phillip, the random dude across the aisle from her was a good first step.)

“Have you ever done something really stupid that wasn’t all that bad but still made you feel like you murdered your whole family and laughed about it or something?” Emma asked, mostly out of nowhere.

But Phillip seemed to understand her motivation pretty quickly, his eyes flashing toward her sleeping “neighbor” immediately. “I took this trip. That’s bad enough, I’d say.”

“Aren’t you going to a job interview? That’s kind of… necessary.”

“Yeah, but it’s all in the timing. My girlfriend back home – she’s in New York. More specifically in Presbyterian Hospital. She was in an accident last week and she’s in a coma. The doctors say she’s going to be fine – or at least they _think_ so – but she still hasn’t woken up. And her family all told me I needed to go do this interview and _my_ family agreed. But it sort of feels like the worst thing ever. Which is why I didn’t really mind when you were so clearly trying to make your boyfriend mad by talking to me and the guys in front of you. It was a nice distraction from my own… somewhat awfulness.”

Phillip’s shame was etched deep into his face, his confession opening up the flood gates on all the thoughts and feelings he’d been denying the first few hours of the seemingly endless flight.

And she got it. It’s hard when it feels like you’re doing something _selfish_ when really it’s just the rational thing to do. But guilt can just about kill you.

“You need to get a job, though, right? Your girlfriend would understand that.”

“Oh, absolutely. I only left because I could practically _hear_ her saying ‘get your ass to the airport and leave me to sleep like the princess you know I am.’ But it doesn’t change the fact that I should be with her. I promised to be with her. Forever. And I only haven’t made that official because I’m not even out of college and I don’t have a job and therefore can’t afford to purchase the thing you generally purchase when you’re promising forever.”

Desperately hoping Killian didn’t take this most inopportune moment to wake up and misinterpret a situation (based on her own prior asshole-ness, of course), Emma reached across the aisle to grasp Phillip’s hand. “You’ll get this job. She’ll wake up. You’ll buy the ring. Don’t let your guilt make you fuck up the job interview or your princess will never forgive you.”

Emma could feel the small smile creeping across her face as Phillip finally laughed, grasping her fingers more tightly in thanks. “And what about you, young lady? How exactly have you messed up today?”

Ah, the change of subject. Just what she’d been dreading. “Well, it’s idiotic. Seriously. I made us late to the airport this morning on our first trip as a couple, all because I was nervous and demanded onion rings at breakfast.”

“At breakfast?!” Phillip threw his hands in the air. “Wow, you’re rude _and_ insane.” The two of them laughed at the whole situation, Emma quickly recounting her snarky comments and Killian’s refusal to take her _please yell at me_ bait.

“I hate to say it, but you might want to wake your _sleeping beauty_ over there and maybe say all of that to _him_? I appreciate your self-awareness and honesty, but that dude fell asleep to watching you ignore him and flirt with other guys. You’re going to have a lot of groveling to do.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I brought a _groveling_ outfit. Just in case.”

“OK, that I didn’t need to know.” Phillip faked a look of disgust and then steadfastly stared at Emma, conveying a whole lot of judgment without saying any words at all.

“Oh, _fine_ , I’ll talk to him.”

-

The plane was crashing.

Holy shit. The plane was crashing.

Wait. No. He was falling out of the plane?

Hmmm. No, there wasn’t any wind. But he was being jostled all over the place and the last he’d remembered he’d been on the plane and …

Oh. He was being shaken. By a person.

Yeah, the Benadryl had been a terrible idea, in retrospect.

“Killian? Are you alive? I’m really hoping Whale is with Ruby at the airport because I’m not sure if you’re in need of medical care…”

Killian grumbled what he _thought_ was “I’m fine,” but Emma continued babbling out her worries, so he’d apparently not been as clear as he’d intended.

“’m up. ‘m Ok. No doctor Frankenstein.”

After another few minutes of Killian trying to crawl out of the Benadryl coma while Emma gently rubbed his arm, he finally was able to wrench his eyes open and attempt to come back to reality.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

“I think I’m still not talking to you,” he replied, trying to wrack his memory for any evidence of him not being angry at her anymore.

“I think you’re probably right, but you kind of need to at least look at me so I can apologize.”

“Apologize? I was getting the distinct feeling that Emma Swan didn’t think she ever needed to apologize for anything.” He was slowly coming back to reality, which was just bringing his bitterness even closer to the surface than it was before – tiredness does lead to a diminished filter, after all.

Emma’s expression fell and her shoulders slumped and the shame on her face was almost enough that Killian met her halfway on her whole apology thing. _Almost_.

“I really am sorry, though. I shouldn’t have let my stress make me stubborn this morning and then I shouldn’t have tried to write off the consequences of said stubbornness and I _really_ shouldn’t have tried to make you angry so you’d talk to me instead of just being the grown up and asking you to talk to me.”

“And why ever would you care if your _neighbor_ and _gay travel companion_ was talking to you or not?”

Emma closed her eyes in what looked like frustration, her brows furrowed like something was causing her literal pain. And much like he didn’t take her anger-bait earlier, she didn’t take his now. “I should have told you I was sorry. I should have admitted I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

As much as she generally shied away from prolonged eye contact during moments of stress, Emma held his gaze, clearly pleading with him to forgive her.

(If only she knew he could never _not_.)

Amidst an involuntary allergy medicine-induced yawn, Killian reached around her and brought her in for a hug. Her body seemed to release all its tension as she sank into his side, snuggling her nose into his neck and kissing all the skin she could reach without moving. He ran his hands through her hair and just enjoyed the moment, not sullying it with any more talk of _aye, we were both right wankers this morning_. It didn’t actually need to be said.

“So, are we there yet?” he asked, legitimately not sure about how long had passed while he slumbered.

“Hmmm. No, still about an hour left.”

“Well, then why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” The fellow across the aisle had clearly been listening to their conversation – Killian had a sneaking suspicion the man may have encouraged his stubborn lass to wake him in the first place – and Killian was frankly too tired to hold a grudge at the moment.

-

Ugh. Fucking Ruby.

As soon as the plane had landed and come to a stop and everyone was free to switch on their phones, Emma had received a flood of messages from her so-very-frustrating best friend.

_Victor is running late at the hospital so we’ll be there a little late._

_OK, a lot late. It’ll be probably an hour after you land._

_Make that an hour and a half. He’s saving lives though!_

_We can call you an Uber?_

_I’m sorry!_

Emma didn’t trust Uber. Or taxis. Or public transportation in cities she’d never been to. So after consulting Killian about the delay, she’d fired off a text to Ruby, complete with as many _annoyed_ emojis as she could find.

_Too nervous to trust any strangers. Get your ass here ASAP. We’ll be waiting_. _If we die it’s your fault._

So the two of them deplaned and stretched and grabbed a bottle of water each before waiting on their luggage to make its way around the ridiculously slow carousel. Once they’d retrieved their stuff, they shuffled off to a nice corner where they could lean on their luggage and each other and maybe get a few minutes of rest before Hurricane Ruby made landfall.

“Swan,” Killian called, poking at her arm gently. “Are you awake?”

“Killian, it’s been 45 seconds since we sat down. Of course I’m still awake.”

“Well, good! Because I had an idea.”

“If it involves asking Phillip to take us anywhere then _no_. Because the fancy company he’s interviewing for sent a fancy person to pick him up and they probably don’t tolerate stowaways.”

“Oh, wow, I hadn’t even thought to ask him. That would have been a good point, Swan! But no. I was thinking… we didn’t get to properly make up after our brief row this morning.”

“Uh, I apologized and we hugged, what more do you want from me? Flowers? I’m sure they sell some here somewhere…” Emma started to push off the suitcase-pillow she’d made, begrudgingly willing to go the extra mile if he needed some tangible proof of her sorry-ness before they moved on with their lives – but he pulled her back down.

“No, love, I was thinking more about sneaking off over there to the janitor’s closet that the cleaning man clearly didn’t lock when he left just now.”

“What, so you can kill me? I’m too tired for murder, Killian,” she whined, her brain clearly too exhausted to catch Killian’s meaning.

“Emma, I’m suggesting we take our free time to have some sex in a semi-public area. Ruby would be proud, after all.” Killian was laughing and seeming to keep his request in the half-joking tone – probably in case she said no – but she could tell he really meant it.

And could _feel_ how much he meant it when she skimmed her hand over his ever-so-slightly tented pants.

“This might be the worst idea you’ve ever had, but I’m in.”

The two of them stood slowly and meandered down the hallway that led to the closet. Killian checked the door (discretely) and as he’d suspected, it was unlocked. So Emma casually leaned against the wall, pretending to type a text message on her phone while Killian ducked into the closet, his and Emma’s bags in tow. She looked up, ensured no one was looking directly at her, and then followed him inside, swinging the door shut quietly.

“Fuck, it’s super dark in here.” Emma couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face, let alone see Killian. But it wasn’t more than a few seconds before his hands were at her waist, pulling her into a deep kiss as his fingers pulled at the bottom of her shirt so he could reach up it. She sighed as his hands caressed all up and down her back, his fingers working at the clasp of her bra as his mouth trailed across her cheek, down her neck, and eventually down her chest until he was pulling her shirt up and closing his lips around her nipple.

She fought the deep instinct to _moan_ at how good it all felt, knowing that there very well could be someone outside the door _actually_ casually leaned against the wall sending a text message. So she held her breath as much as she could as he assaulted her with kisses and licks and sucks to her skin that surely would leave at least a few marks.

“Can’t… wait,” she whisper-moaned as she pulled back from him enough to feel down to the fly of his pants, unzipping it and yanking down his jeans and boxers just far enough to have access. Killian really _did_ moan when her hand finally grasped him, and she brought her mouth to his in an attempt to silence them both.

She reached for a wall to get some leverage, but couldn’t feel for it in the dark. _Leave it to them to find a place secluded enough to have sex, but too dark to work out the logistics of actually doing it_. But as Emma let out a frustrated whine, Killian mumbled something about “just like this,” as he kicked the suitcase beneath him onto its side before turning Emma to face away from him.

He reached around her and pulled down her sweats, leaving kisses along the back of her neck as he reached between her legs to find her far more than ready for him. “Put your leg up on the bag,” he instructed, and not a moment after she hitched her leg up, she felt him line himself up and push inside her.

Maybe it was the stress of the day, the relief of having gotten through their little _issue_ , or the fact that they didn’t die in a fiery plane crash, but Emma was painfully close to orgasm after little more than a minute. She was biting her lip so hard she could taste blood and was grasping one of Killian’s hands so hard he might have bruises, but she was determined to keep herself quiet as the flood waters broke.

Killian was clearly just as ready to fall as she was because he was muffling his grunts by burying his face in her hair, his breath on her oversensitive neck paired with his deep thrusts practically making her forget her own damn name.

Which is probably how she forgot exactly _where she was_ and let out a very un-stealthy moan as Killian spilled himself inside her (and probably down her yoga pants in the process). He grunted slightly in relief as they came down from what was probably one of their stronger joint orgasms – especially for the surprisingly short duration of the encounter itself.

As they caught their breath, Emma tilted her head to the side and sloppily found his lips for a brief kiss as they each pulled up their pants – and just before they could reach down and grab the handles of their suitcases to make a hasty exit, a knock sounded at the closet door.

_Fuck_.


	22. The Long Way Home

“I think you two are the only non-terrorists I’ve ever known to wind up on the no-fly list.”

Ugh. Leave it to Ruby to find this very terrible predicament they were in just _so damn funny_.

After security had escorted them out of the airport and Ruby had found them sulking on the curb of long-term parking, Killian had just assumed that he and Emma would laugh it off and enjoy the rest of their vacation (well, the _start_ of it, really). But Emma’s cheeks were still burning red, even an hour after the incident, and the weight of the logistical nightmare they were now dealing with – you know, _how the hell do you get the whole way across the country without a plane_? – well, he wasn’t exactly laughing it all off himself.

The plus side: Emma wasn’t mad at him. Nor was he mad at her. They knew they were doing something stupid and they were _clearly_ both willing participants. If anything was to blame it was their hormones. Or something. But the downside: not being mad at each other doesn’t make the other glaring problems go away.

“And, what, you’ve got a lot of terrorist buds out there?” Emma snarked back, the first words she’d actually spoken since Killian regaled the Washingtonians with their tale of love, lust, and losing their right to take domestic and international flights for an undetermined amount of time.

“Hey, I’m proud! Wasn’t too long ago you didn’t care enough about anyone to risk that kind of nightmare. It’s a good thing when baby’s in love.”

“Baby is in _a fucking mess_ , thank you very much, Ruby.” Emma was tapping at her phone furiously, whether it be taking out her frustration on Angry Birds or researching alternative forms of travel - Killian couldn’t be sure.

“I might be able to get you on a flight if one of my fancy doctor friends is headed East,” Whale offered, only _mostly_ failing to hide his amusement at this whole… thing.

He was a good guy, Whale. He was good for Ruby and he made such a genuine effort to be _part_ of things, when other boyfriends might be jealous of the circle of friends their girlfriend maintained – especially if it included attractive men. But Whale wasn’t like that. He truly did want to help Killian and Emma, and, more importantly: he was trying to wait until they weren’t in front of him to burst out laughing.

That’s a good man for you.

Emma groaned. “No, it’s OK. Killian has meetings he absolutely can’t miss and I have a lot of preparing to do, so we can’t just wait around until the perfect coincidence happens. It looks like there are train routes the whole way from here to Boston, but it’ll take…” Emma paused, scrolling through what was likely a travel site on her phone. “Almost three full days.”

“But you were only going to be here for four days!” Ruby cried, the gravity of the situation actually _hitting her_. Finally.

“Looks like that’s been reduced to _one_. Think you can condense that massive schedule of yours?”

“Fine. But there will be zero time for sleep. Or any more closet sex. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Killian mumbled, entwining his fingers with Emma’s as they locked eyes and telepathically agreed they were idiots.

-

They were literally the world’s biggest idiots.

Who the fuck gets kicked out of an airport for having sex in a closet? It’s not like anyone _saw_ them. It’s not like they were _hurting_ anyone. But it was “inappropriate” and “not tolerated” and all kind of other condescending shit from a TSA agent who was so clearly not getting any.

It was their fault. That much wasn’t lost on her. But her anger still wouldn’t subside. Why could life be like movies, where the couple joins the mile high club in the fucking airplane and when they leave the bathroom they just get a knowing smirk from a fellow passenger and an eye roll from a flight attendant?

Nope, in real life you get caught and banned from flying for 6 months. Or something. She wasn’t quite listening about the details since she was so busy trying to figure out how the fuck they were going to get themselves home.

And things weren’t any better now that she’d found the solution. Miraculously the airline did refund their return trip money, so the $450 in train tickets were covered by money already spent. But three days on a series of trains that probably smelled like stale food and feet? Not exactly the happy vacation Emma had been planning.

They could use that time to their advantage, of course. Emma wouldn’t be flying solo as much when it came to organizing the schedule for the summer, since Killian would be trapped at her side. And they really were about to be apart from each other and insanely busy for quite a stretch of time. So while she’d have loved to spend those 3 extra days with Ruby and Whale… well, at least she wouldn’t be alone.

How weird, not being alone.

Finally.

Ruby whisked them off to her ridiculously fancy loft (“Quite an upgrade from our shitty apartment, huh?” “There are more perks to dating a doctor than him knowing anatomy” “ _Ruby_!”), and the still-mortified pair dropped their bags in the guest room before Ruby promptly opened her cell phone and started re-plotting. Reservations were cancelled and rebooked, new friends were texted and weather was checked and before Emma even had a chance to check her makeup, Ruby was herding them out the door and into an Uber she’d apparently had hailed three minutes before.

“You’d better get ready for a whirlwind, sweetheart!” Ruby flipped her perfectly coiffed ponytail and yanked open the Prius door, motioning for Emma and Killian to slide into the back with her as Whale took the front. He politely shook the driver’s hand – a college kid, without a doubt – and murmured something low about a ‘very promising opportunity’ and suddenly she was feeling like Katherine Heigl in _27 Dresses_ , having her own personal chaperone for the day, with some very important strings attached (did this mean the night would end in singing _Benny & The Jets_ on a bar? Because that level of humiliation was nothing compared to what she’d just suffered).

Catching Emma’s train of thought, Ruby whispered, “it’s easier to have one driver than a thousand. This kid has been our little cabbie before. He’s cool!”

_What on Earth were they getting themselves into?_

 

The first part of their one-day adventure was _all_ legs. Sure, the Uber kid stuck around to get them the long distances, but everything else was pure sprinting: through the Museum of Pop Culture and Pioneer Square, up Queen Anne Hill to Kerry Park to stare at the Space Needle, and then, of course, to the Needle itself. They took a ferry and stared at the big Ferris Wheel, without stopping to ride it (“I’d have loved to kiss you at the top, love,” Killian had said. “Don’t you think we’ve had our fill of kissing this trip?” she’d responded, smacking his chest for good measure). Finally, they’d moved on to the eating portion of the evening, grabbing coffee at Storyville (“Starbucks is for tourists!” -Whale) before devouring pizza at Serious Pie. Emma may or may not have taken a nap in the Uber, the poor college kid yawning himself, until they hit the _clubbing_ stage, Ruby introducing her to more people in the span of one hour than she’d met in the previous two years.

Drinking was a bad idea. They were _barely_ going to sleep before they had to be at the train station. But fuck it all, Emma had come to Seattle to have fun with her best friend, to take a break from stressful reality, to let loose and just _be_. And it seemed _Sober Emma_ was actually the more dangerous when it came to breaking international rules of travel and shit, so what was really the worst that could happen with Drunk Emma?

-

It had been the most glorious day. His legs were sore, so deeply sore he’d feel it for _weeks_ , but they’d taken him to some truly incredible places. His lungs were still burning from all the steps and hills and finally the dancing, but maybe a 24-hour speed vacation was exactly what he’d needed. It’s simple. Efficient. And most of all it filled him with a carefree joy he couldn’t remember having since probably his first date with Emma.

Not because his life hadn’t been full of joy since then. It was quite the opposite actually. And truthfully, even that first date wasn’t carefree. No, it had been bliss, but it was also worry. Worry that may have been entirely unnecessary, but had existed nonetheless. But this day: the worst had already happened. He and Emma had landed themselves on the no-fucking-fly list. Was there really a lower low than that? No! So Ruby did what Ruby was best at: she lifted them up and showed them the goodest good time imaginable.

Seeing Emma’s face when they got a glimpse of Mount Rainer from the top of that hill, watching her discover weird and wonderful food, experiencing the pure hilariousness of her trying to convince a bouncer that she was that doctor from _House_ and was _obviously_ on the VIP list – he’d never trade any of that for his freedom to fly on a plane. Never.

(He’d also enjoyed the way Emma had sipped at her rum just a little too often, had let her inhibitions go and had danced against him like they were in some semi-dirty fairy tale at a slightly risqué ball. But that wasn’t specific to the Experience of Seattle or of Hurricane Ruby. That was just Emma, pure, joyous, Drunk Emma.)

For as nearly- _royal_ as she’d looked at the bow of a Seattle ferry, her eyes serene and her golden hair whipping in the wind – well she’d looked the exact opposite _now_. The college kid had finally had his fill of Whale’s very deep pockets and they’d called for a new driver, an older, fabulously snarky lady by the name of Ursula. She’d vowed deep revenge if Emma tossed her cookies in the shiny semi-new vehicle and half-asleep Emma had mumbled something about Ursula sounding like a fire-breathing dragon. Killian had tried to cough over her words to muffle the half-insult, but Ursula had simply responded: “you have me confused with Mal. I’m the sea witch, and I’ll drown your sorry ass. Got it?”

Emma kept her mouth shut after that one.

They’d gotten back to Whale and Ruby’s place with no more than two hours to nap before their appointment with Pacific Railway or whatever the fuck company was shuttling them across the damn country.

“’Least we’ll see some more of ‘merica. It’ll be patriotic,” Emma mumbled through her knotted, frantic hair, echoes of a few entry stamps having rubbed off from the back of her hand to the apple of her cheek.

“Of course, sweetheart. We’ll sing the Star Spangled Banner through each state we pass. And then I’ll sing some _God Save the Queen_ and really confuse people.”

“Oh, shut up, you stupid Brit or I’ll throw your tea in the ocean!” The threat might have been a little more believable if she hadn’t yawned through it.

Killian wobbled slightly but made it out of the car and pulled Emma along with him. Whale and Ruby – tightly holding on to each other either for cuddling or for structural integrity – unlocked the flat and followed them inside.

The tiredness was setting in pretty heavily so the group of them mostly just mumbled their thanks (and apologies) to each other, the girls getting somewhat weepy in their drunk-to-hungover emotional daze, and they all said their goodbyes since there was no way Ruby and Victor would wake up before Emma and Killian had to bolt.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Emma whined, stroking Ruby’s hair.

“I miss you already,” she responded, reaching her hand out to poke Killian. “You, too, mister.”

-

BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BEEP

God, she’d thought she liked ferries but these ships wouldn’t shut the fuck up. And why were they trying to make port in Ruby’s spare room, anyway?

A body shuffled behind her, pushing and poking at her as it stirred.

Killian, right?

“Emmaaaaaaaaa.”

Why wasn’t he more alarmed there was a damn ship in their house? No, Ruby’s house. Where was Ruby?

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Get uuuuup.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Why won’t the ship stop? This isn’t the harbor!” Emma insisted, still unable to pry her eyes open.

She shifted, trying to roll toward Killian so he might do something about this mess. Which was when she moved her head and realized the ship might have run over her skull because holy hell it hurt.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Emma Swan, where is your fucking phone.”

Damn, Killian was angry. It wasn’t her fault the ship was…

Her hand grazed over something cool and hard and _vibrating_.

Her phone.

It wasn’t a ship ruining her nap. It was her phone. Alerting her that she needed to wake up and begin their extremely long journey home.

Once she was physically capable of silencing the alarm, Emma dismissed it and mumbled a few apologies to Killian, kissing all over his cheeks and ears and neck to coax him out of his slumber a bit more nicely.

God, why did they think it was a good idea to act like there was no fucking tomorrow the night before? If you’re going to behave like the world is ending, you damn well better make sure it is. And _not_ that you’re beginning three full days in a tiny train seat (well, _several_ tiny train seats, but that was beside the point).

“Good morning, Swan,” Killian groaned, dropping a kiss on her forehead before sitting up the whole way.

“It’s… morning. I’ll give you that.”

The two of them didn’t have much to do in the form of packing, considering they’d barely had any time to _un_ pack. So they were out grabbing a muffin and some non-chain coffee and hailing a cab within a half hour, giving them plenty of space before their departure time to ensure there weren’t any more travel tragedies in one trip.

“So what’s the game plan?” Killian asked, opening the calendar app in his iPad.

“Well, I have a lot of calls to make to confirm reservations and catering and all that boring crap. But I’m thinking we should sleep off the tornado first? Then we can divvy up responsibilities and get as much done as possible during whatever’s left of the ‘work’ day.”

“Look at us, being all business-y,” Killian smirked, his eyes practically twinkling with pride.

“Killian, I can still smell the vodka seeping out your pores. We’re not exactly in the running for Power Team of the Year.”

“Oh, darling, if there’s anything I learned at Uni, it’s that the important stuff is even greater an accomplishment when you do so while still having fun. ‘Work hard; play hard,’ right?”

“OK, but I’m getting too old to play quite _that_ hard. It was fun, but once we’re on that train I’m going to be out of commission for quite a while.”

“Worth it though?”

She scooted over their bags and took the iPad off his lap, sliding herself into its place. “Always worth it.” She kissed him just passionately enough to convey her feelings – but held herself back so as to keep them from making a scene. (Again.)

-

Wasn’t time supposed to pass more bloody quickly when you were busy?

They’d been on this damned smelly train for what felt like three days already. When it reality it had been only _five hours_.

They’d slept the first two, but the rails were bumpy or shaky and there was an odd amount of non-mechanical noise considering it was quite early in the morning _and_ it was a long trip. There was a pack of excited schoolkids somewhere prattling on about the goings on of high school. And a couple of businessmen were making slews of phone calls. And a woman toward the front of the car seemed to be playing therapist to her sister who may or may not have slept with her boss _and_ her boss’s cousin? It would have been mildly entertaining if Killian had been at all wanting to be in the world of the living.

Emma was even crankier about it all. He’d gotten out her headphones and she’d shoved them in her ears so hard she might have sustained ear drum damage, but neither of them could get back to sleep, so with the sun still low in the Eastern sky, they started their work.

Emma had made calls and crafted innumerable emails. Killian had checked in with the most recent clients to make sure everything had been satisfactory and to encourage them to write a review. He scheduled a few drafts for the Instagram posts he wanted to put up between now and when he was traveling to take care of the insurance and ownership stuff. It had been three solid hours of getting shit done like procrastinators before a deadline… but when it came down to it, their deadline wasn’t approaching all that fast. _Their destination_ wasn’t approaching all that fast. The only thing that seemed imminent was their combined loss of sanity.

So they agreed to take a little breather. They played some HangMan. Some Alphabet Game. Some Name that Tune and Guess the Celeb and even some I Spy – which didn’t go so well in the spans of uninhabited land. They finally resorted to playing a few phone apps until their eyes were bugging out from the lack of sleep and excessive screen time. And all that had taken…

_Two hours._

They were never going to survive this.

-

It was so good to be spending time with Killian. It _was_. And they’d been so productive! And had a bit of fun, too.

But lord help her, Emma was about to go to jail for hitting a teenager with his own selfie stick (who even _used_ those anymore?!). She was hungover, tired, and irritable. She was still angry at herself for her inability to keep it in her pants in an airport. And she was deeply thankful for the previous day’s wonderful adventures but sadly those moments were in the past and her present and near future were all mumbling kids and rigid, uncomfortable seats, and trying desperately not to take out any of her frustration on poor Killian who didn’t deserve any of it.

(He’d been her punching bag before and she _refused_ to let that happen again. Not for anything, but especially not when he was suffering just the same as her.)

After Killian had (seemingly intentionally) lost their last life on Candy Blast Mania, Emma took her phone back and put it in her pocket, reaching back over Killian to put away all their other devices and notebooks and any real sign of _business_.

 _Deep breath_. (This could go badly.)

“Let’s play hypothetical future.”

“Hypothetical?”

“Yeah. Like _pillow talk_. But, you know, _ugly train cushion talk_.”

Killian looked half-terrified, which was probably fair. They didn’t talk much about the future. And he’d always been justifiably afraid of her castle-like walls and overstepping and scaring her into bolting.

But that wasn’t her. Not anymore.

“You sure you want to open that door?”

“Babe, I think once you’re on the no-fly list together, you’re pretty solidly _in it_. Just saying.”

“OK, soooo. Where would you live? If you could choose anywhere.”

“Probably some tiny-ass cottage in the woods away from people like in Snow White. But I’d hire seven servants to cook _me_ food instead of the other way around.”

“What, you don’t trust me to feed you?” Killian quirked his eyebrow adorably, and her heart skipped like she was a twelve year-old sitting next to her crush on the school field trip.

“Oh, they’d feed you, too. _We’_ d be busy doing other things.”

“Other things?”

“Running businesses. Getting kicked out of more places for indecency. The usual. Where would _you_ want to live?”

“Other than on my ship? Probably back in Ireland. It’s breathtaking there. You know I spent most of my childhood in England, but I did have some family near Dublin and I was totally in love. Thought about going there during a few of my darker moments, but I thought that was a place better saved for happier times.”

“Look at you having optimism!” Emma squeezed his cheeks and he scowled at her in return.

“Well, good thing I did or I’d have never found you.” His eyes were bloodshot and so very tired, but she could still see the sincerity there (nothing hypothetical about _that_ ).

“I don’t know. I’ve never been very optimistic and I still found you.”

“Nah. You had it on the inside all along. I know you well enough to know that much.”

Instead of answering, Emma tucked her head under his chin, hugging him as closely as she could in the cramped, shaky train seat. “Maybe.”

-

The hours passed much more quickly – and far less painfully – as they named their hypothetical dogs and bought their hypothetical cars and planned their hypothetical vacations. It was soothing to sink into the world of fantasy closely enough related to reality to believe it all could be true in some nebulous _someday_.

(Hopefully one not _too_ distantly in the future, if Killian had anything to say about it.)

More than once he thought of bringing up their business partnership, of telling her about his intentions to make that far more _official_ – but then he remembered exactly who he was talking to. Emma was soothed by the fantasy part of their _pillow talk_ , of the ability to be honest without it really mattering since it wasn’t imminently _real_. If he were to have broken that fantasy with talks of actual upcoming real-ness, she very well might have snapped.

(Another part of him, the hopeful part, probably, whispered that she might have been perfectly fine with it. That telling her now might have been the better choice for Future Killian if he didn’t want Future Emma to hate him. But he ignored that hopeful bastard living somewhere deep in his chest and just kept on laughing about Emma’s list of retirement plans, one of which involved raising goats and another being an investigator for Interpol.)

That evening they had a couple hours to kill in a transfer, so they feasted on burgers and absolutely no alcohol, walking around for as long as possible afterward to combat the stiffness in their sore legs. The next train was larger, more comfortable, and for that they were endlessly grateful. They could stretch out as they typed away on their laptops, working on some more business stuff before the time came to sleep.

It wasn’t the worst night’s sleep he’d ever had – at least he’d been afforded the opportunity to sleep the whole night, unlike the previous one – but he slept fitfully, having odd nightmares about tortured baby bears and malls that were booby trapped with IEDs. Emma seemed to have gotten slightly more deep sleep than him, her bright smile oddly radiant when he finally opened his eyes. They pulled out the tray table in front of them (yes, this one actually had some accommodations beyond a toilet and some bags of chips for sale), and less angrily got to work.

 

The next two days passed much the same: sleeping, eating, playing Boggle on their phones, watching movies, and planning out details of their upcoming excursions. Emma had been a miracle worker, getting their schedule almost totally solidified for the summer. She’d worked around all the other community camps to make sure they had the potential for good turnout. She’d partnered with the local daycares and even a Vacation Bible School to have different little outings specifically for them outside of the public camps. Killian had never known Emma to be a particularly religious person, but her enthusiasm at planning how to turn his “pirate” ship into Noah’s Ark was nothing short of adorable – especially when she squealed over the possibility that one of Mary Margaret’s friends might even be able to bring a few animals to the ship for the day, so long as Emma was OK with having to clean their messes.

It’s not like the three days passed _quickly_ necessarily. But they passed without torture. The West Coast slowly but surely became the East Coast and a very tired and sore Emma and Killian were hailing an Uber to take them from the train station to the airport – just so they could pick up the car and keep on driving back home.

It was probably 3am when they finally pulled into the tiny parking lot of their shabby little apartment building. Emma had drank about five cups of coffee and was _still_ on her last leg. And Killian had been using one of his “pirate” rings from his luggage to pinch himself conscious.

 

It had been a long fucking journey, but they were finally home to sleep in their bed.

Well, _one_ of their beds, anyway.

The exhaustion was so deep, he didn’t even pay attention to which door he unlocked or where he threw his bags (and hers) – he only knew that for the first time in four days, he and his love were finally sleeping in a damn bed. And nothing had ever felt so good.

-

When Emma woke up, Killian was already gone.

She _knew_ that had been the plan. The reason they’d had to take the marathon of trains home in the first place was because Killian had an appointment he’d had to get to. But Emma had assumed he’d wake her up in the morning – intentionally or otherwise – so she could at least see him off. But no, she’d slept until almost noon and he was probably already waiting at the insurance guy’s office and she was left to make breakfast all by herself.

The quiet was oddly comforting, after several days of absolutely no privacy.

Emma decided on something simple for breakfast – a pair of Pop-Tarts and a nice large mug of coffee – and some Netflix to top it off. There were new _Kimmy Schmidt_ episodes to watch, but Killian wouldn’t forgive her cheating if she watched without him, so she put on an old crime procedural and just zoned out.

It was at least three episodes in before she realized something odd. There wasn’t actually any reason she couldn’t have _gone_ with Killian now. She’d gone into Wonder Woman mode on the business planning and everything she’d been slated to take care of while Killian was off having his meetings… well, they were already done. Emma really had nothing to do beyond a few confirmations and details that could have been coordinated from anywhere – and yet Killian hadn’t asked her to go with him. And he knew how productive she’d been.

He was exhausted, just like her. And she hadn’t realized it until he was hours and hours gone. So that’s probably what happened with him, too.

Right?

The partners on the screen were having some arguments and tension related to miscommunication and misunderstanding and it was all very cliché for these kinds of shows, but quite honestly it was giving Emma some paranoia, so she switched over to Forensic Files and figured if there was anything on _that_ show that reminded her of her relationship with Killian… well, let’s just say that meant she had _bigger_ problems.

She texted him after a case involving a footprint in a hamburger bun, and he texted back a few emojis and exclamations of disbelief. He tried to call her a half hour later, but of course that happened to be when she was in the shower.

So she tried to call him back, but it turned out he’d had _another_ meeting that day and he was in a dead zone on his way to driving there. He called her once he had service and they talked for a couple minutes about some hilarious panicking texts Killian had received from David about his impending fatherhood before Killian had to head into the meeting. When he was out of it, he texted Emma asking if it was a good time for him to call her back, but she was out shopping with Mary Margaret for baby items – apparently it was a two-man job since you needed to look up safety ratings _and_ consumer reviews while walking through the store. (Of course, Emma knew why David had made an excuse to get out of _that_ task the second they walked into the store and Mary Margaret started barking like a drill sergeant.)

She texted him when she was relieved of her shopping duties, but Killian had been on the phone with Will – apparently there’d been some issue with Belle? And before Emma could wonder too long about it, Belle showed up at her door asking for a place to stay.

Ten minutes later the wine was poured and the PJs were on and the words were finally flowing. “So the landlord needed me out for just a couple of days because they had to entirely turn off the water. To the whole building! So I just kind of _assumed_ he’d let me stay with him and he panicked and called me a gold-digger or something ridiculous like that. And then accused me of moving too fast! Emma, I literally just wanted to sleep there. Which, by the way, I have done. Many times!” Belle gulped down her very full glass of wine all in one motion. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. I just needed a place to crash. It’s not like it doesn’t… _benefit him_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Belle, everyone knows what you mean.” Emma good naturedly rolled her eyes at Belle’s attempt at euphemism – it was odd to think of a badass who’s busted up drug rings and organized crime as so _innocent_ at times. But she was sweet down to her core, and truly at a loss for words when it came to Will’s unfortunately predictable behavior.

“Here’s the thing,” Emma started, taking a long breath. “Will’s… kind of like me. He’s been burned before. He was pretty guarded – just in a different way. An _assier_ way if you recall. But that’s what it was. He had walls. And you brought those down! Or at least a lot of them. But now he’s panicked. You stay over after you try half the Kama Sutra and that’s no big deal. But you actually _plan_ to sleep at his house, no post-coital bliss and sleepiness to cover the reality, and his instincts kick back in. I’m not saying it was _OK_ of him to behave that way. I’m just telling you – it’s not _you_. And I know that sounds cheap and horrible and believe me, I’m down for TPing his place if that’s what would make you feel better. But I think you guys have something good! And I don’t want his knee-jerk reaction make you think he’s only … a _jerk_ , I guess.”

Belle was quiet for a long time, just staring intently at the lipstick stains on her wineglass and the fingerprints she and Emma had both left on the stem. Belle’s brows furrowed and she shook her head like she was trying to erase the memory of the last day and finally she looked back up at Emma. “He’s being an ass and I’m not happy about it. But you’re right. He’s probably just reacting badly because… well, because of the past. I’ll talk to him. You know, after he sweats it a while, right?”

“Right.”

Emma grabbed the wine bottle and they each had just a splash more, before finding a nice revenge movie on Netflix and going to sleep.

-

He’d only been away from Emma for a little over a day and he was going nuts already. They’d texted a little here and there and had gotten brief little phone calls in between all their obligations and unscheduled craziness (Belle and Will were certainly _talk_ -blockers this time rather than the other thing). He wanted to hear her voice and hold her and just exist for a while.

You know, before he told her that he’d legally signed over half his business to her without her knowledge.

That hopeful part of him had risen up on his drive to the city. It had crawled from the back of his heart right up to the front of his brain and said _you idiot I’m not some optimistic fool; I’m actually your fucking voice of reason, dumbass_ (his voice of reason was apparently very profane now that he’d been so vehemently ignored). And Killian knew it was right, too – Emma was going to be _confused as hell_ at best – and very possibly _infuriated_ at worst. Who gives someone half a business without fucking consulting them first? He was a damn, daft fool who was apparently so afraid of fucking something up that he was inadvertently fucking it up even faster.

 _Fuck_.

Hopefully she’d have some free time when he got home. Hopefully they could cook a meal together and take a walk and make fun of Will & Belle and Dave & Mary Margaret. Hopefully they’d connect and relax and have time to just be themselves before he dropped the goddamn bomb that could put a giant fucking crater in the middle of their relationship.

He’d stopped to get gas about a half hour from home and shot her a text ( _can’t wait to see your beautiful face, love_ ), but hadn’t gotten a response. She was probably on the phone with Belle or caught up with Netflix or charging her phone in the other room. It was impossible that she was already mad at him for something she didn’t know about yet.

Or could she have found out somehow? His lawyer assured him that they didn’t need her information or signature at that time in order to name her part owner. Could he have sent something to her that was meant for the lawyer? Did he accidentally call and confess in his sleep?

He was so caught up in his worst-case-scenario spiral that he almost missed the fire truck roaring up behind him, its sirens blasting and its lights flashing.

Damn, he was clearly in a pretty deep panic spiral if he almost missed _that_ coming up behind him. He forced a few deep breaths and focused totally on the road – he was only about five miles away, so he’d have the relief of seeing happy, normal, not-yet-mad-at-him Emma in just a few minutes. He could deal for that long.

But less than one song length later, more flashing lights popped up in his rearview mirror. He pulled over by the local golf course as two more fire trucks and three police cars passed him. Jesus, was the whole town burning down or something?

He called out to his phone and triggered the voice dial to call Emma – she’d been with Belle who would obviously have a scanner. She’d know what was going on.

But it went to voicemail.

Emma had always been intrigued by these kinds of things – she’d worked alongside law enforcement, after all. Maybe Belle had gotten called to the scene and Emma had tagged along.

(Killian loved how passionate Emma could be about solving crime, righting wrongs. If they made enough in his/their business endeavor, she really could retire into a life of intelligence briefings and investigating or something.)

He finally saw the smoke when he passed the gas station at the edge of town. It was mostly gray on the outsides with some white puffs throughout, but there was a menacing plume of pure black right in the middle. It was still far off – there were blocks of houses and trees between himself and the smoke – but it was definitely within the town limits. People were gathered all over the place, just staring, pointing, doing what people do when something terrible is occurring (just like what he was doing, in all technicality).

Killian kept driving, curving around the mayor’s house and past the high rise for retirees, across the painted 5K race finish line and through the stretch of Chestnut Street that really needed some renovating. The smoke was getting closer – he could smell it even though his windows were rolled up – and one more sharp left turn later… that’s when the flames were visible.

As was the building the flames were bursting from.

It was _his_ building.

( _Theirs_.)

The whole roof of the three-story building had caved, most of the damage coming from the East side on the second floor. Charred bricks were falling as flames licked up the structure, smoke twirling through unseen tunnels caused by temperature changes and drops in pressure. The windows had blown out on all floors – including the second and third ones back from the front on the first floor, also known as his window and Emma’s.

A blockade was set up about a hundred feet around the building on all sides, so there was no way he’d be able to get to their parking lot to drop his vehicle. Instead of trying to beg his way past the emergency crews, he pulled into a church lot a block or so away and leapt out of the vehicle without so much as locking it behind him. He frantically tapped at his phone, trying to get to his recent calls to just _fucking hit redial_ , but his fingers were shaking so bad he hit the wrong contact _twice_ (sorry Will). He finally tapped the right line, but Emma’s phone just rang and rang, the cheery lilt of her voicemail message grating at him during this very non-cheerful moment.

The bed and breakfast near their apartment didn’t have any caution-taped Do Not Enter warnings, so he sprinted in that direction, ducking under bushes and through swing sets to get to their parking lot without drawing any attention.

Maybe Emma had gone out with Belle. Maybe she’d been far away and wasn’t inside burning with all of Killian’s worldly possessions.

(He couldn’t watch his heart burn. Not again.)

He hoped and he prayed to every God known to Earth, but lo and behold, when he turned the corner to his building’s designated lot, that silly yellow Bug was parked exactly where Emma always left it.

_Fuck._

Killian had thought that today’s worst outcome would be living in a world where Emma was mad at him.

It hadn’t crossed his stupid fucking mind that he could wind up living in a world without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the transit stuff is crap. You mostly take buses on the route from Seattle to Boston. But live with me in fantasy where US mass transit involves trains, k? 
> 
> Also, don't hate me for that ending. Pretty please.


	23. F is for Fire

When they smelled the smoke they should have just _run_. They should have put on something other than their pajamas, maybe, but beyond that they should have done nothing but snatch up their phones and wallets and head for the fucking hills. They should have just reacted like any normal, scared human would.

But no. They weren’t _normal_. They didn’t just run away from bad stuff. They ran toward it; they tried to stop it. They were helpers.

Emma loved that about herself, and about Belle. It’s why they became friends in the first place. They were the ride or die kind.

And it appeared they were choosing _die_ today.

 _Leave it to her to be cracking dark jokes in her head before she burns to death_.

(Hey, she gets bitter when her attempts at helping don’t do a damn thing.)

“Belle! Belle, are you here?”

To be fair, when Emma and Belle had run _toward_ the source of the smoke rather than away, they really weren’t thinking it was going to be life-threatening decision. Kind of like how she figured closet sex in an airport wouldn’t get her on the terror watch list or how she thought becoming friends with her loud next door neighbor couldn’t possibly irrevocably change her life. Oh, how the universe loved to prove her _wrong_.

The smoke was now so heavy that Emma couldn’t see her fingertips as they slid along the soon-to-melt retro-ass commercial carpet, her attempts to crawl down the hallway not seeming to get her anywhere close to fresh air.

“Emma!” Belle choked out, somewhere to her left. “Stay low!”

 _No, Belle, I was planning on going up there where all the heavy smoke and death was_.

_Fuck, she needed to chill with the snark and focus on surviving._

Focus, _focus_. One tends to lose focus after the psychopath they were trying to _help_ bops them over the head and throws even _more_ accelerant at the walls of his apartment.

Not only the walls that were currently surrounding her, but also, you know, the one right above Emma’s own dwelling.

Yep, if she ever did crawl her way to safety, she was going to be back living in her fucking car again. Provided, of course, that it wasn’t parked so close to the building that it burned, too. Then she’d really be homeless.

 _Homeless_. And just when she’d found somewhere that had felt safe, the mad fucking hatter upstairs had to go off his meds and in an attempt to _cleanse the bad out of his life_ , he set her living quarters _on fire_.

She and Belle had been having a delightfully lazy morning. Mimosas with pancake brunch, reruns of mindless comedies, a few rounds of Chutes & Ladders – it was perfect. Emma was anxiously awaiting Killian’s arrival home, and Belle was planning out all the things she was going to yell at Will before inevitably forgiving him. It was as if nothing was going to fuck up their day.

But then they smelled the smoke. It wasn’t visible yet, not downstairs at least. So they slid on some flip flops and shuffled upstairs, following the smell (and eventually the screaming).

“Should we call the police?” Emma had asked (you know, before thinking about to whom she was speaking).

“I _am_ the police, Emma.”

“OK, yes, but not _this_ town’s police. Do you have your phone?”

“No, it’s charging in your room. Do you?”

“No. Of course not.” Why would she bring something like a communications device in a possible emergency? That would only be _rational_.

“Well, can’t turn back now. Let’s hope he’s just pissed he burned his popcorn.”

Sadly that wasn’t the case. It was dear old _Bucky_ ’s door they knocked on – and were at first met with a _go the fuck away_. Belle kept pounding, insisting they just wanted to help, and something in her plea must have gotten to him because he opened the door. She couldn’t have gotten through to him _too_ well because once they were inside, he did nothing but scream things at the two of them about their gender being the downfall of humanity, about how love was a disease, about how he needed to cleanse the bad out of his life.

It seemed the fire had started on the couch, probably ten minutes before the women had entered the room. Jefferson had piled some photos and letters and what looked like women’s clothing on the multi-colored 70s nightmare of a sofa and tossed a lit Zippo on it like she’d only ever seen in movies. After attempts to reason with the bastard had stalled, Belle had run to the closest fire extinguisher (across the hall in the laundry room) while Emma continued to plea with him to please return to the realm of sanity. But before Belle could return, that sorry ass piece of work excuse for a person slammed the damn door closed and shoved a chair against it, his hand around Emma’s throat tighter than even the nastiest bail jumper she’d encountered.

“Jefferson! Jefferson, nothing in this world could possibly be terrible enough to justify torching the building. Or killing me! Just let me go and let Officer French put out the fire and everything will be OK. It’s all going to be fine. Just stop and _think_ and don’t ruin your life. Everything will be OK. It’ll get better.”

“Sure, that’s easy for you to say, Princess Lovestruck. Remember, these walls and floors here are pretty thin and I know damn well you don’t know any kind of struggle that isn’t purely _consensual_.” He quirked his eyebrows on the last word in a gesture that would have been seen as only playfully suggestive had his eyes not been full of white-hot rage (and had Emma not been sweating from, you know, an actual fire the psycho had set).

 _And what a psycho he really was_. Emma had obviously _known_ how thin the walls were, that he could hear them, but this somehow made it a whole lot more disgusting. And creepy. And just… once she wasn’t in a life or death situation she was going to reevaluate her sexual choices because the “public” thing was seriously the opposite of thrilling once you got into all the fucking consequences.

(Stupid reality.)

“You think that because I’m – _cough_ – happy _now_ that I wasn’t miserable before?” I suffered plenty enough of my own and I got out. I was dealt a crap hand in this life but I played it best I could and I didn’t lose. I got out of it. Just like you’ll get out of _this_. Just don’t get yourself killed or, you know, _imprisoned_ before you get there.”

Jefferson looked like he actually might be contemplating her advice, his stormy eyes looking just that much more human, so she’d taken the opportunity to elbow him and twist out of his hold. She immediately sprinted toward the doorway to remove the chair and let Belle back inside, her constant pounding throughout Emma’s little speech proof that Belle wasn’t giving up. Just as Emma had yanked the chair back and the door flew open, a large object struck her on the head and she _dropped_. White foam was visible in her periphery so she was pretty sure Belle had probably gotten the extinguisher working, though the fire had already spread from the couch and across the floor to the window.

Visibility was pure shit, so she couldn’t honestly tell the extent of the damage. She’d been more focused on Jefferson than on how the flames were spreading, but it couldn’t have possibly gotten this out of hand in mere minutes, right? Maybe her head wound had her exaggerating the extent of what was happening. Maybe she was just panicking.

But before she could rationalize herself out of dire straits, something crumbled. Loud. It sounded like brick which meant it had been an external wall and not just a piece of furniture or a kitchen cupboard.

Fuck.

Emma rubbed at the bump on her head and tried desperately to right herself, but the vertigo was like ten shots of tequila, and by the time she was steady enough to focus her eyes on the scene again, a terrible realization hit her - after Emma had elbowed Jefferson he had somehow gotten _lighter fluid_ into his hands and he now seemed to be spraying it all over his walls, across the floors, and even on himself.

“Please, stop!” Belle yelled to him. “We can help you!”

Emma grabbed for a nearby bookshelf to help pull herself up and it was like she’d transported into the third circle of Hell or something. Flames were everywhere. Belle was trying to spray Jefferson with the fire extinguisher, but he was constantly moving and igniting even _hotter_ flames with the lighter fluid and before long she was out of juice.

There was a blanket on the not-yet-burning side of the room, so Emma took a chance, grabbing it and lunging at Jefferson (whose clothes were now partially on fire). She’d tackled him to the ground, but he was eliciting PCP-levels of fucking super-strength and as soon as they hit the floor he rebounded, throwing her across the room and smack into a structurally unsound wall. Debris came crashing down on her, but Belle grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door before she got lost in the rubble.

“Jefferson, please! Just come with us. We’ll help you!” Belle shouted, the ash in the air making her voice scratchy like a lifetime smoker with bronchitis. “Please. It’ll be OK! Come with us!”

“This world ain’t for me anymore, ladies,” Jefferson said, oddly calm for the fact that they were inside a literal inferno at the moment. He looked at each of the women individually, bowed his head, and motioned like he was tipping his (invisible) hat.

And in the blink of an eye, he’d leapt out the second story window in a hail of glass and flame.

Their own safety now at stake, Belle tugged Emma’s arm and the two of them shuffled their way through the debris, the ash-muddled air, past the patches of fire and finally into the hall. As soon as they were outside his door, they hit the ground, desperately searching for a way to get out of the now very-doomed building.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Killian was going to kill her if she up and died on him.

-

Why the hell of all the goddamn people he’d made acquaintances with in this godforsaken town, not a single fucking one of them had been a firefighter?

The building wasn’t just on fire. It was _ablaze._ It was most certainly going to be a total loss, the East side of the building already starting to give and most of the roof caved into the third floor. The fire trucks were now positioning themselves to prevent the fire from spreading to _adjacent_ structures rather than try to stop the current fire – meaning they could tell the building wasn’t going to survive either.

There was still a ladder truck smack in the middle of the road out front, spraying a constant torrent of liquid onto North side of the building, the least damaged and the most likely place for those inside to, you know, still be alive.

Ambulances were lined up in the alley just past Emma’s car, so Killian started toward them, walking with _purpose_ and daring anyone to stop him. If Emma had been home, she’d probably already gotten out. She was probably barking at EMTs to stop doting on her, that she was fine, and to just go take care of someone who actually fucking needed it.

His Emma was a smart one, was a survivor. She’d have gotten herself out.

But it seemed they were only treating one person so far – a man with longer hair and a nearly unrecognizably burned face. There were several people working on him, so not much else could be seen of the man, but his injuries were certainly extensive.

Hope. He needed to keep having hope that Emma wasn’t lost somewhere, looking like that poor dude – except without all the medical attention.

When he realized she wasn’t in the alleyway or around back, he circled back to the front of the building, no longer attempting to be stealthy. Firefighters were rushing the middle entrance, the one that led to the second floor. Were there more people still inside?

“Killian!” he heard. A man’s voice. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it. So he turned and finally noticed the crowd of familiar faces. _Survivors_. Thank God.

Across the street, just past the fire trucks and police vehicles, stood thirty or more of his neighbors. Some of them he knew by name, others of them he only knew by their laundry schedule or the TV show he could hear them blaring at all hours of the night. But they were at least people he knew, people who might have some clue where the goddamn love of his life had gone – since she clearly wasn’t among this particular group.

“Gus! What happened?” Killian jogged up beside the man, a local tow-truck driver who thankfully seemed unharmed.

“I thought someone had burned their pizza or something. But then there was screaming – I think that dude above you had some kind of meltdown? It seems he started the fire.”

 _Goddamn Bucky_. “You mean Jefferson? I always knew he was crazy…” He shook his head, still in disbelief that _this_ is where his done had gone. “Where is everyone else? I don’t see everyone in this crowd.”

“Well some people weren’t home, I’d imagine. But I do think there are a few people inside. Someone had been trying to stop the guy before he apparently jumped out the window.”

God, this fucker. Killian couldn’t help but hope the man didn’t survive the fall, but twenty feet certainly wasn’t fatal. Then again, if he couldn’t locate Emma in the next five minutes, the fall wasn’t going to be that guy’s problem.

Killian would be. It had probably been him at the ambulance, right? Killian could make his way back there and just “accidentally” hit him with a falling brick.

“So, Emma? Any idea where she might be?” Killian asked, attempting to hide the panic and rage in his voice (but probably sorely failing). _It would be just like Emma to try to save the crazy dude. Especially if Belle were still there with her, playing the_ everyone-deserves-a-chance accomplice _._

“I don’t know, man. Maybe she wasn’t inside?”

“Last I knew she was home. Her car’s here. She’s a right idiot when it comes to her own damn safety and it sounds just like her to run off and try to save some nitwit with a death wish!” He hadn’t meant to start screaming. He hadn’t meant to lose his cool.

But he also wasn’t about to lose the love of his goddamn life.

Before Gus could respond, could really even react, Killian stormed off toward the building, determined to get inside.

Nothing was going to stop him. Nothing was going to convince him to back down from this fight because nothing was going to keep him from Emma.

Nothing but an arc flash from the electrical circuits, a blast of heat out the secondary door, and a fully-suited fireman knocking him out of the way, that is.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?!” The masked man shouted at him. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“My girlfriend! I think she’s inside. Emma!”

The man softened for a moment, shifting his oxygen tank and pushing Killian to the side. “You’re Killian, right? Swan’s your girl?”

“Yes! I need to go. I need to find her. I need to – ”

“Listen, Killian. I was at Graham’s funeral. I saw how much you care for Emma, but _please_. You need to let us do our work. If she’s up there, we’ll bring her out. I promise.” He paused, gesturing across the street to where the rest of the apartment’s inhabitants were. “She’ll kill me if I let you go in there and die. So get back. Now.”

Logic wasn’t completely lost on Killian – the man had a point. But how could he just stand back when he didn’t know where Emma was, how she was doing, if she was even breathing or conscious or ever going to open those beautiful green eyes ever again?

The fireman whose name he never caught charged back into the building, and a solid weight slammed into Killian’s back, grabbing his arm and pulling him backward. Killian allowed the force – probably a person – to tug him along, but he just stared forward.

Watched the flames dance as they destroyed the awning. Followed the ash as it floated from the wreckage. Stared blankly as his literal home burned down – while his metaphorical home was lost somewhere inside.

-

It was getting dense, the layer of smoke that was penetrating even the air closest to the floor. The building kept rumbling as it shifted, the boards beneath her less and less likely to actually hold her weight much longer.

And she was getting tired, so very tired. Her muscles were a little sore, sure, but it was more than that. It was deep in her chest kinds of tired.

It was smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning or whatever shit she could remember from her stupid Forensic Files binge watching. She was fucking dying and it wasn’t nearly as theatrical as she thought it would be. It was just sad and pathetic. And slow, far too slow.

Belle was just behind her. She kept her hand on Emma’s ankle so they wouldn’t lose each other, but it was like the hallway was endless, was like the fire escape kept getting further and further away the closer they got to it. Jesus fuck, were they even going the right way? If they finally got to the end of the hall and there wasn’t some type of ladder at the end of it, she was going to be super pissed.

You know, if she wasn’t too _dead_ to have feelings.

 _Feelings_. She missed Killian already. She hadn’t even left him yet, not technically. But she didn’t want to go a place without him. And she didn’t want him to have to be without her.

(They made a pretty good team, you know.)

“Emma… Emma, move,” Belle mumbled, her voice barely audible through the rest of the sounds of destruction. “You have to keep moving. We have to get out of here.”

Emma willed every bit of energy she had left to just making her arms pick up, making her knees drag along the now-definitely-burning floor, desperate to get to safety. She couldn’t think of Killian. Or Mary Margaret or David or Ruby or of any of the other people she’d never see again if she didn’t get out of this hellhole. No, that was just a distraction.

So she focused only on Belle’s hand at her ankle, on all the gumption and pride and badassery the two of them had inside them and picked up the pace. Pieces of ceiling were falling and _someone_ ’s hair was burning and it was way too much like the last few minutes of _Cabin in the Woods_ for her liking, her entire reality crumbling before her eyes, but she just kept crawling despite the complete impossibility that she’d ever see the light of day again –

And that’s when something crashed into her head.

(God, this really was the end, wasn’t it?)

But her last remaining vestiges of logic were shouting something at her – the impact hadn’t been on the back of her head, like someone had fallen _on_ her. No, she’d hit the crown of her head. On something in _front_ of her.

A wall. She’d hit a wall.

She’d hit _the_ wall.

Unable to see and barely able to breathe, Emma sat up, feeling around for any sign of a window. She shook the foot that Belle was grasping, hoping to alert her that they may have found their way out. Receiving the message, Belle scooted up next to Emma, feeling around as well.

There were more rumblings behind them and what sounded like voices, but it was probably just the lack of oxygen making her hallucinate, so she kept her focus on finding the way to the other side of that fucking stupid wall that probably re-concussed her recently obtained concussion.

On wobbly legs, Emma tried to stand, to reach just a little higher to see if they were in the right place and to her absolute relief, she felt the telltale sting of getting stabbed by broken glass. “It’s a window! Belle!”

The women both stood, bunching their PJ tops around their elbows to clear away the rest of the broken glass. Flames were shooting above their heads and out the top of the tall window, but Emma leaned out, desperate to get to the fire escape and eventually to the ground.

But of fucking course, just as she’d suspected, they’d gone to the wrong damn end of the building. The fire escape was toward the back – which had been where the fire had already spread. They were now at the front of the building, a clear(ish) view of the city, the fire trucks, the world that _wasn’t_ crashing around them – but absolutely no stairs.

 _Fuck it_.

Despite there being no clear way to the ground and despite not having enough oxygen left in her body to perform any kind of physical task, Emma climbed out of the window and onto a very thin ledge, the ground below now feeling much further away than twenty feet had any right to.

Fire fighters at their posts started yelling to her to wait there, that they’d get the ladder to that window right away, but with Belle still stuck inside behind her, that just wasn’t an option. So instead of waiting for the help that was being offered, Emma tight-roped her way across the building, completely ignoring all commands from below, and _leapt_ off it toward the end of the fire truck.

To her absolute surprise, she actually _made it_ , landing (hard and painfully) on some kind of shiny contraption she’d make sure to learn the function of someday.

“Ma’am! What the fuck was that for?! We were just about to save you.”

“Nobody saves me but me,” was the last thing Emma remembered mumbling before the darkness finally took her.

-

That damn, daft, dumb, idiotic, ridiculous, obnoxious, fucking woman.

The firefighters were probably _thirty seconds_ from getting the ladder to her, from being able to calmly and professionally get her out of the building and safely to the ground. But no, little miss impatient pants has to go a jump off the thing just like the fucking psycho who set the damn fire!

OK, it was slightly different. Emma was just trying to escape. She was probably desperate. And she was aiming to _live_.

But she was still the dumbest idiot he’d ever known in the history of his time on Earth.

Belle, the ever-sensible one, had waited for the firemen. She’d been carried down the ladder and promptly whisked into the ambulance. Emma had gone there as well, but it took even the strongest guy a moment to hoist her from such a high spot – she was _on top the truck_ , after all.

(Damn stupid woman.)

Gus ran with him to the side of the ambulance Emma was in, tried to use his connections to help beg Killian’s way to Emma’s side, but because they weren’t _married_ and because Emma wasn’t awake to consent, they couldn’t allow him to be transported with her.

God, it was the longest day of his fucking life and it wasn’t even _noon_ yet.

All his pleading to no avail, Killian watched as Emma and Belle were rushed to the nearest hospital, him unable to do anything to help either of them.

After taking a well-earned moment to just _rage_ at the stupid fucking universe for this very not-OK turn of events, Killian – at Gus’s behest – put on his helping cap and started making calls. He told David and Mary Margaret what had happened, had called Will and told him which hospital to go to. He’d stopped off at the local dollar store to grab Emma and Belle some real clothes for when they were ready to be out of hospital gowns (hopefully soon), and made a call to his own renter’s insurance company to file a claim on, you know, everything he fucking owned.

(Hopefully Emma had heeded his warning and gotten some herself, as well.)

All the logistics taken care of, Killian drove to the hospital, announced himself at check-in, and sat completely useless in the waiting room, blankly staring at the empty wall that didn’t even have the decency to be filled with a television screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you I'd update quickly. Hopefully no one wants to smack me anymore!


	24. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got angstier at times than I'd intended, but hey I just follow where the characters take me. Special shoutout to mearcats - one of your comments made it into the dialogue : )

It’s funny how sometimes you just want to reach through your rib cage and rip out your own lungs.

OK, so _funny_ probably wasn’t the word. But Emma was trying to see some form of lightness in her current situation. And, yes, she was failing horribly.

She couldn’t talk, not really. It came out all scratchy and wasn’t really worth the pain, so she’d taken to writing notes. Except her hands had suffered minor burns from coming in contact with hot objects, so that hurt, too.

Just wonderful.

Miraculously she hadn’t broken her legs – Killian did well to remind her exactly how _lucky_ she was to have escaped that particular injury (“why are you calling _me_ the lucky one? I’d say it’s _you_ , considering if my legs were broken you’d have been the person in charge of helping me use the restroom,” she’d scratched out, her voice somehow Julia Child and Morgan Freeman at the same time).

He’d been distant. He was taking care of her, of course – in addition to David, Mary Margaret, and Regina, the three of whom were also tending to poor Belle (alongside a massively apologetic Will).

Belle was doing about the same as Emma, though with fewer bruises, cuts, and sprains (Emma was ever the Princess of Stupid Ideas with Painful Consequences, it seemed).

Sleeping was Emma’s current favorite pastime. Not because it brought much rest – no, with all those wires and tubes hooked up to her, with all the pain and discomfort, all the noises of the stupid hospital, her sleep was never really all that _high quality_. But it meant she didn’t have to talk to anyone, didn’t have to apologize again for her stupid/heroic behavior, didn’t have to watch the people around her worry and fuss and _dote_.

It hadn’t been the wrong decision. Despite his fucking crazy, Emma still stands by going up to check on Jefferson. She had to at least _try_ to help. At first it had seemed so minor, so it wasn’t like it was life-threatening. She hadn’t known from the start what she was getting into. And when it escalated, well what was she supposed to do exactly, just say _fuck it_ and let the psycho burn down _her home_? Yeah, it burned anyway (burned to the ground, nothing left but beams and brick and dust), but she had to know that she’d tried to save it, to save the only place she’d ever really felt OK.

And, you know, other people lived there, too.

Killian didn’t leave the hospital. Ever. The nurses would try to kick him out and he’d always get snippy with them. “Where the fuck am I supposed to go?” he’d growl out, not an ounce of politeness left in him. “My home burned just like hers. I’m staying _here_.”

After his little outburst, Emma had written him a little _thank you_ on a sticky note and stuck it to his arm. He’d smiled and folded it up, putting it into his pocket before scooting his chair closer to her and laying his head on her bed, time to get some sleep.

She’d run her IV-laced fingers through his hair until his breathing evened out. Whether or not he was actually sleeping, she couldn’t be sure. But hopefully he was faring better than her in the _rest_ department.

Mary Margaret was exhausting. She was pregnant and shouldn’t even be on her feet the way she was (probably? That’s how pregnancy worked, right?), but she was constantly on the go. She’d buy Emma and Belle better food, better drinks (even though they didn’t exactly like putting anything down their throats quite yet). She’d bring fresh flowers and prettier bandages to cover their burns and scrapes. She was absolutely hell bent on providing comfort and relief in the form of material goods and any attempts to make her stop only made her _cry_. So Emma gracefully ( _not_ ) accepted each new offering, vowing via notebook that Mary Margaret was making a difference.

David was a different story. He and Killian were mostly still riding the Rage Train.

Jefferson had – thankfully – been moved to a different hospital, air lifted to the city where they had a dedicated burn unit (and a _psych_ unit – just saying). He’d been in bad shape. Obviously. He’d thrown accelerant _on himself_ , had been standing directly in the fire. His burns were the kind that stayed with you. Forever.

(So much for a cleansing.)

_His_ legs had been broken. His pelvis, too, if she were to believe the chatty nurses roaming about the halls. It was a miracle _he_ was alive.

A miracle that David and Killian did not appreciate. The two of them spent time researching how to sue him. They came up with “fantasy” plans for how to kill him and get away with it. They even tried to blame the ex for “not getting him proper treatment” and their landlord for “renting to a goddamn psychopath.”

Emma was pissed at Jefferson, and with every right to be. Duh. But what kind of recourse was going to do any kind of good right now? The man was clearly suffering mentally. It takes a lot of _wrong_ in your brain to resort to arson, to completely dismiss the consequences of your very unhinged actions. She was angry and annoyed and caught in a never-ending _why me_ kind of depression spiral about the whole thing, because obviously Jefferson’s actions affected her. Directly.

But suing him wouldn’t take it away. Even him _dying_ wouldn’t change the past. He needed _help_. And Emma needed to never think about the bastard again. A concept David _couldn’t seem to fucking grasp_.

“Please,” she croaked. “Just... pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“But he did this to you, Emma! Your life is just… gone. And all because of that idiot!”

Emma rolled her eyes and shrugged and grabbed her notepad, scribbling in childlike chicken scratch: _say his name one more time and I’m going to find an IV needle and STAB YOU WITH IT_.

He stopped talking about it after that. Out loud and in front of her, anyway. But his rage, his fury was still permanently etched into his scrunched up face and lifeless eyes.

It was like he couldn’t see that Emma was still here. You know, right fucking in front of him.

(Sometimes anger gets in our faces. It makes us _do the wacky_. Just like love.)

 

She was taking a “nap” (reliving the time travel episode of _Castle_ in her head) when an all-too-cheerful sounding set of heels started clicking on the shabby linoleum floor of her shabby hospital room.

“First you land yourself on the no-fly list, and then you jump out of a burning building? Damn, girl, you’re making my life look positively dull.”

“Ruby!” she practically _growled_ , her voice particularly yucky after a few hours without water.

“Oh, dear lord please don’t do _that_ again. I’ll have nightmares.” Ruby always knew how to lighten a mood, make the best of a truly shitty situation. She and Emma shared that _way too soon and highly inappropriate_ sense of humor and it was just what she needed after the doting, brooding, and outright _ignoring_ of her the last three days.

Emma grabbed for her notepad and pen, only causing a _little_ pain as she jerked at her IV port, and started scribbling.

_What the hell are you doing here???_

“Um, my best friend _jumped out of a burning building_. Did you miss that part? Of course I was coming to see you.”

_You sent your love via text through Killian’s phone. With a lot of emojis._

“No emoji is a substitute for _this face_.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about _that_ ,” a smooth British voice called from the doorway. It seemed Killian had returned from his hourly walk/excuse to avoid Emma.

“So, Jones, has the fire convinced you that you should move to Seattle? Victor is itching to get you in on his poker night after last week.”

“We played poker?” Killian looked truly shocked by that information, which was particularly amusing considering how much he’d won – while apparently blacked out.

“Oh, you played _good_ , sweetheart.”

The two of them spent some time catching up, Ruby seeming to sense that Killian wasn’t in any mood for joking about the recent _incident_ that was the reason she was visiting in the first place. Emma just listened and smiled and gestured a few times in response to a question.

It was just nice to hear her voice. And to hear Killian’s voice… you know, without the twinge of blind rage or deep depression.

He’d seemed to be feeling far guiltier than Emma could wrap her head around. What exactly could he have done differently that would have changed the outcome of the day? Literally nothing. It all would have gone the same, except he’d be hurt, too. But he was feeling bad and it was making her feel bad and there was just something so odd about feeling the person you want _right beside you_ –

And realizing they don’t seem to be there at all.

-

He needed to tell her.

A lot of things, actually.

(There was nothing like a near-death experience to get your damn priorities in order.)

First of all, he needed to tell her about the step he took without her permission. But, you know, she was probably going to want to slap him. And he owed her that. So he couldn’t tell her that when she was laid up in a hospital.

And he needed to tell her she was wonderful and perfect and all he ever needed in his life.

Sure, she probably realized he felt that way. She probably suspected that he felt _the L word_ for her. But they never talked about it. They’d had some heart-to-hearts, they’d confessed their feelings and whatnot, but there was always the hint of humor, the possibility that it wasn’t all real and important and _solid_.

He knew it was. And he suspected that _she_ knew he knew that. But why didn’t he fucking tell her? Why didn’t he confess how terribly much he loves her and how he plans to stay at her side every day for the rest of forever? Why didn’t he make sure there was absolutely no possibility for miscommunication?

Oh, because he was scared. Scared she might run or worse, that she didn’t feel the same way.

But she did. She fucking did and he knew it and why didn’t he just take the leap?

Nope, instead he watched _her_ leap – off a fucking building, not knowing if she’d survive long enough for him to spill his guts.

And now he was just so angry at himself and annoyed at her and positively raging at the lunatic who couldn’t handle his own shit and put them all in this situation in the first place. In other words, he was in no state for a mushy, lovey speech.

And she was in no state to hear it. It wasn’t clear whether she was trying to avoid speaking with him or if she was just reacting to his own coldness, but she’d been fairly uncommunicative. She’d reassure him with little notes and he’d keep them close, but he couldn’t control the fire in his chest every time he thought about how she was almost taken from him, about all his own shortcomings, and especially about fucking _Bucky_ and how much he wanted to strangle that bastard with his fucking breathing tubes.

OK, yes, he was overreacting. Emma would lecture him beyond belief if he were speaking out loud (and if she had the ability to talk at length), but he was just _so mad_. And it was easier to be pissed off at a violent, mentally unstable neighbor than it was to cope with being irrationally angry at yourself.

Ruby’s visit provided some perspective. With Emma not able (and/or afraid) to lighten the mood, Ruby was a breath of fresh air. He was able to forget, if only for a moment, about all the bullshit of the past few days. He was able to feel like he was just sitting in his living room, hanging out with his two very favorite ladies.

But that sense of _home_ quickly vanished when he remembered his home had done just that – vanished. Gone were the couches they’d lounged on, the TVs they’d watched, the video games they’d played.

(Gone were the walls on which they’d knock for communication long before they were face-to-face friends.)

It was all gone.

It appeared he’d gotten a little lost in his dark thoughts, because Ruby had moved on from joking and catching up with him to apparently playing hangman with Emma on the nurse’s white board. Emma had gotten an entire song title correct without a single body part drawn and therefore was celebrating by doing a little dance from her bed.

Which resulted in a tugged wire and a pulled cord and all of a sudden there was a steady beeping and a very cranky nurse storming in to fix everything.

“Damn, Emma, you’re on fire today with your clumsiness,” she joked, Emma raspily chuckling in response.

Killian, of course, was not amused by anything that contained the word _fire_.

“What, too soon?” she asked him, a look of mock innocence crossing her still-laughing features.

At least _Emma_ was smiling.

 

It was the next morning that Emma found out she could be discharged. They needed to check all of her wounds and do a few more tests on her lungs, but everything seemed normal.

Well, normal up until the nurse made the mistake of asking Emma if she was excited to go home.

She stared blankly at the poor lady and then reached for her water, gulped down as much as she could and responded, “Would be if I _had_ one.”

Which appeared to be the moment the nurse realized that Emma had been in the fire that destroyed her apartment. And she therefore had nowhere to do. Not officially, anyway.

She _had_ somewhere to go. She and Killian were both invited to stay several places. Ruby, of course, had offered her flat in Seattle, but that was the first suggestion they steadfastly turned down. Regina, Robin, Mary Margaret and David, even Belle’s family had offered them places to stay. Only Will had forgone extending an offer – and that was because he was so desperately wrapped up in helping Belle to recover the hideousness (and their brief disagreement, too).

“I’m thinking we go with Regina. She’s got the big house, after all,” Killian joked to Emma as he was packing up her (recently purchased) clothing and toiletries.

“If that’s what _you_ want,” she responded flatly.

“Swan, I was kidding. I just kind of assumed we’d go to David and Mary Margaret’s.”

Emma rubbed at the little hole in the crook of her elbow, the place they’d just removed the IV (a sure sign she was imminently free from this hospital hell). “I mean… well, I was thinking that maybe we shouldn’t stay together.”

Her sentence didn’t quite compute. “What do you mean ‘not stay together?’ What else would we do?”

“Well it’s not like we lived together, Killian!” Her sore voice was probably on its last leg, so to speak, with this influx of talking, but Emma showed no sign of wanting to switch to the notepad instead. “Just because we lived in the same building doesn’t mean we have to go to the same ‘emergency shelter.’ Plus you can barely look at me and it’s making me feel like shit. So maybe you should just go work out your anger at me or whatever somewhere else. I’m sure Robin would be happy to have you.”

He got the distinct feeling that if she’d had the ability, she would have stormed off at the end of that sentence (she so very much loved to have the last word). But instead she just plopped back down on her lumpy bed and hung her head.

And he probably should have thought a little longer about what he said in response. But, you know, emotionally charged situations and all – they’re not great for critical thinking. “But we _can_ live together now. I mean… why wouldn’t we? We have to find new places. What’s so wrong with finding the same one? It would certainly make the process a lot simpler.”

The room was uncomfortably silent for the span of two walkers scratching by the open door of Emma’s hospital room – and three announcements over the PA system.

“OK, so you want to move in with me because it would just ‘make things easier?’” Emma put air quotes around those last three words, and that was about the time Killian realized he should have kept his damn mouth shut (he’d been right to not confess the mushy stuff – it certainly doesn’t come out very mushy in his current state). “I’m not interested in taking an important step in our relationship just because it would be less of a headache. Speaking of headache, I have one. And I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And I’d like to be somewhere that doesn’t make me want to commit murder. So could you please go find David for me and, I don’t know, call Robin while you’re gone to let him know you’re coming?”

Emma stood from the bed and hobbled over to the duffle bag with her things, grabbing one of the sweatshirts he’d gotten from the hospital gift shop. She refused to look at him, but as soon as he took a breath to respond, she countered, “Killian, please. I can’t do this right now.”

So he leaned over, kissed her cheek, and left.

-

“What kind of idiot suggests moving in like that?” Emma rasped, Mary Margaret quickly grabbing the empty bottle in her hand and running off to fill it with more water.

“Well, I mean – he does have a point?” Ruby suggested, her voice light and laced with a tone of _please-don’t-kill-me-for-stating-the-obvious_.

“OK, yes. I mean, he kind of does. We were probably going to get to that stage, anyway. So it does make sense. But he’s barely talked to me since I was in the hospital!” Mary Margaret returned with the water and Emma sucked down half the glass before continuing. “He was cranky for days and distant and I get it, but you don’t go from ‘I’m basically just tolerating you’ to ‘let’s consolidate a life together’ in a few hours.”

“Well, as Belle said yesterday, you also don’t usually go from brunch with your BFF to half-dead in a hospital bed in a few hours, either, sweetie. The situation is pure garbage, and he probably did it all wrong, but you can’t stay mad at him for this.” It was the first time in three days that Mary Margaret had actually voiced anything other than _how can I throw more things at you to make you feel better_.

Of course, just when Emma was at her low, Mary Margaret decides to stop doting. Just fabulous.

“You know, he hasn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet? Who moves in before you say you love them?” Emma countered, her argument seeming flat even to her own ears, considering it would take being blind, deaf, and perhaps not _human_ in order to _not_ know that Killian loved her.

(Or that she loved him in return.)

“Emma, you’re not exactly the easiest person to please. Or the easiest to know what you _want_ , I should say. I’m sure he was playing it safe. And I’m sure the second he saw the fire trucks, he regretting playing it safe.” Ruby took a deep breath, closing her eyes as if to channel the energy of the sea or some of that floofy shit she’d taken classes in back when she lived by Emma.

“I know I joke a lot. And I know I don’t say too much about Victor. But one day he was on call and he was paged after an accident. It had been some kind of mess between a couple of cars going too fast and a tractor trailer that had fallen asleep at the wheel. Anyway, the passenger of one of the cars looked _just_ like me, apparently. Or enough that Victor’s heart dropped at least. He did surgery on her, but there was no saving her. He had to call time of death on her and he had to tell her brother and her boyfriend that she was gone. It was that night that he picked me up from the apartment building, still wearing his scrubs, and told me in a very matter-of-fact tone that I was the best thing to ever happen to him and he’d like to come home to me every night. He was tired. It was midnight – and not the romantic kind. But it was _real_. He’d had enough fear of losing me entirely that he was no longer afraid to push me away. _Mad at him_ was better than _dead_ in his book, I guess.”

(Always ending on a light note, that Ruby.)

The girls were all quiet for a few moments, Emma feeling their stares through her eyelids as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to figure out any way she could stay mad at Killian instead of herself. (She was failing.)

“Now can we please call Robin to bring him over? I’d made up the guest room for _both_ of you.” Mary Margaret was scowling at Emma when she finally opened her eyes. Ugh. How did she go and fuck up so quickly?

“Fine, but someone else is calling him.”

-

A strange number popped up on Killian’s phone. Who would be calling him that he didn’t have in his phone book?

That’s when he remembered that Belle and Emma had left their phones in the apartment. You know, the one that had burned down. And rather than trying to rush new iPhones and deal with insurance and all that crap, Mary Margaret had just picked them up some Tracfones from the local dollar store. Meaning they both had new numbers, at least for the time being.

He answered expecting to hear the rasp of Belle or Emma, but instead it was David’s voice on the other line, apparently having borrowed Emma’s new phone. “You’re being summoned, Jones.”

“Summoned?”

“Yeah, the crazy girl has admitted her crazy and requests your presence. And I swear if you refuse I’ll bop you on the head because, yes, she was wrong, but she also almost burned to death this week so how about we give her a pass?”

“Only for you, Dave.”

 

Robin had been expecting that Killian wouldn’t stay long, his things already in Robin’s jeep before Killian had even requested a ride to the Nolans’.

“Oh, I figured one of you would crack. Like you could actually be away from each other.” Robin scoffed and rolled his eyes and Killian felt a lot like punching him for his attitude, but then again why would he? It was technically a compliment to his and Emma’s relationship that it was so obvious they should be together.

(Well obvious to everyone except Emma apparently.)

The ride to David’s place was mostly full of idle chat, comments on the football matches he’d missed and on how smitten Will was. It was, again, a relief to have some to just _talk_ to, someone he didn’t constantly feel guilty about lying to or about failing to keep them safe.

As much as he was looking forward to seeing Emma, to hopefully holding her and allowing the tension of the past few days to dissipate, he was also dreading this. They were going to have to talk. They’d both need to apologize, or something in the general vicinity of apologizing, and they’d both need to be honest. Her own honesty would probably be fairly minor – probably just admitting she was scared, which, you know, duh. But his? She really could hate him for making such a decision for her.

Robin opted not to come inside, citing the fact that he and Regina actually were planning to watch a movie together that night ( _Oh, now I see why my bags were already packed_ ), but he did ask that Killian pass along his well wishes to Emma.

And, of course, he wished Killian good luck.

(Which he’d need.)

“Killian! Fancy seeing you here!” David called out the front door, waving a bottle of beer at him to usher him inside more quickly.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if I _stay_ ,” Killian groaned. He probably should have told Robin there was a chance he’d end up crashing his date with Regina. Just to give him fair warning and all if Emma were to kick him out. Again.

“Oh, you’re staying. Probably for quite a while, I’d imagine. My wife has already hung pictures in the guest room to make you both feel welcome while you’re sorting out your living arrangements. So you’re in this for the long haul.”

“Shouldn’t you two be focused on the _baby_ and not us?”

“Well at this point you two need about as much supervision as children, so we’ll call it practice.” David clinked his bottle against Killian’s, took a sip, and wandered back into the kitchen.

“Ah! He’s here!” Ruby shouted as she bounced out of the living room, a glass of wine in her hand.

“Should we really all be drinking when Emma can’t?” Killian questioned.

“She can tolerate us all better when we have a buzz. Now, Mary Margaret and David and I are off to do some baby shopping! Leaving you and your lady _all_ alone. But the kind of alone where you talk, not the kind where you get kicked out of airports. Savvy, pirate?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Ruby looped her arm through Mary Margaret’s and the two mumbled their goodbyes to Emma as they joined David out in the kitchen. There was some shuffling and talking and the scuffle of shoes before the outside door creaked open and shut.

And he was alone in the house with Emma.

She was perched on the couch, her less-bruised elbow leaning on the armrest, one leg curled toward her chest and the other extended across two of the three cushions.

“Can I sit?”

“If you can fit. I’m not moving my leg. It hurts like a bitch.”

“Shouldn’t you be icing it? Or taking pain killers or something?”

“Nah, I’m toughing it out. You know me.”

“That I do,” he mumbled, tipping his head away from her so he could roll his eyes without her seeing.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, mister. I know I’m frustrating but, you know, it’s been a bad week for me. Being on fire and all.”

Her voice was still hoarse and weak, but he could sense the smile, so he turned to meet her eyes as he sat down at the opposite end of the couch. “Yeah I suppose I could cut you some slack. But, you know, you only get to use this so many times.”

“No way, buddy. This one’s good for the rest of our lives. Very little can trump _burning building_. I’ll always have that card in my pocket.”

It was uncanny how quickly they could fall back into their easy, joking manner. He reached out and put his hand on her ankle, running his fingers along the bruises.

“So. The rest of our lives. That’s a thing you think about?” Easy joking was nice, but unfortunately, it was time for a Real Talk.

Her response was not only shocked, but almost offended: “Of course I do! It just kind of seems like… you don’t. Didn’t? Or something. I don’t know.”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?”

“Well why wouldn’t _I_?!”

It seemed they’d come to an impasse. Apparently when you were both just supposed to _know_ that you were Serious (not just boyfriend and girlfriend but actually going somewhere _else_ kind of serious), there really were significant chances for miscommunication.

“I love you,” Killian finally said, reaching out for Emma’s hand. “I love you so much it apparently makes me stupid sometimes. I shouldn’t have been so angry at the hospital. I mean, I was never angry _at_ you, but I’m sure it was hard to watch me be angry _near_ you. A lot. And I’m sorry that seized the worst opportunity to ask you to live with me. And I’m sorry it took you jumping out of a burning building and spending four days in the hospital for me to tell you I love you. So very much. Basically from the first time you yelled at me, in case you were wondering.”

Emma smiled and squeezed his hand tighter, shifting her leg forward so she could scoot closer to him. “I love you. Definitely n _ot_ since I first yelled at you. But I still love you all the same.”

Little fireworks went off in his chest. Despite already knowing how she felt, despite the fact that none of this was a surprise, just hearing the words made him do a little happy dance all the way down to his soul.

And that’s when his voice of reason woke up from his nap and gave him a little _tap, tap, tap_ to the brain.

_Better tell her now, buddy_.

Deep breaths. He needed to take some deep breaths.

“Would you still love me if I did something big and somewhat life-changing without your knowledge?”

“Did you already buy a house? Because I swear to God, Killian, if it’s ugly I will smack you.”

“No, no. Um. OK, so you know how I had meetings with the insurance guy and my lawyer and all that?”

“Yeah? Obviously? That was only a few days ago. And miraculously I didn’t suffer any memory loss from my recent… incident.” Emma smiled and giggled a bit (as much as she could when she sounded like what he imagined a talking bulldog would) and it made him all the more ashamed of the imminent confession.

“OK, yes, you remember. And I told you why I was going – but only _part_ of it. The papers are in my bag and I can show you later, you know, if you don’t kill me – which, at this point I would understand if you did and – ”

“Killian. Spit it out.”

He paused one last time, exhaling out and preparing for the worst.

“I made you an equal partner in my business.”

Emma’s eyebrow shot up and her eyes roved the room as her mouth fell slightly open. After a few more seconds of silence passed, she started physically looking around the room like a leprechaun were bouncing around with a damn pot of gold in his hands. Maybe she had been taking more medicine than he’d thought?

Then she finally spoke: “And?”

“And what?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“Equal partner in the business, right?”

“Yes.”

“ ** _And_**?”

“And what?”

“ _That’s what I’m asking you!”_ she growled, choking a little from raising her voice. She reached for her glass of water and downed a little bit before turning back to him.

“Did you sign a contract with the devil for my soul in exchange for half your business?”

“Um. No?”

“Then why the fuck are you freaking out?”

“Well why aren’t you?! I asked you to move in with me a few hours ago and you reacted like you were going to run me over with a car. But I give you half my business and you’re just cool with it?”

“Well I do half the work. Why _wouldn’t_ you give me half your business?”

This fucking woman. Just when he thought he knew her enough to predict her reactions, just when he thought he’d prepared himself for all the worst…

She goes and gets all _understanding_ and _reasonable_ on him.

“So you’re OK with it?”

“Did you not want me to be?”

“Well I assumed because I did it without your permission – which was stupid, yes, but I was scared you’d say no – that you’d be really angry.”

“I’m a little weirded out that you could do that without at least, like, my signature? But I’m not angry. I mean, not at _you_. I’m a little angry at the fucking universe because these injuries and this obnoxious voice are both messing with our schedule. Summer is almost fucking here. We need to execute our very well-crafted plans!”

Her frustration was palpable. She really was _all-in_ when it came to the business.

And apparently also with the relationship.

How weird was that?

( _His favorite_ kind of weird, of course. The kind named Emma Swan.)


	25. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! As my story is nearing its end, I just wanted to share with you something very cool. The idea for this tale came to me in my last apartment, as my walls were thin as effing paper and I could hear everything my (very NOT KILLIAN) neighbors were doing. Since then I've moved away and I actually now live near a shore (of a lake, but, you know, close enough). And actually THIS VERY NIGHT, I'm adventuring onto a pirate ship that offers excursions just a few miles from my house. For realsies. It's a more "party" atmosphere one, so I guess I'll find out if I wrote it convincingly or not. But seriously. How cool. I get to kind of live my own story.
> 
> Side note: I will post this on tumblr, but probably not until tonight, as I very much want to post photos of my actual pirate ship experience along with it. (I'm @charmingturkeysandwich over there if you didn't know.)

Recovery wasn’t like it was in the movies and TV shows. Well, not in the happy ones at least.

Emma was miserable a lot of the time. Her voice was mostly back to normal, but the aching in her chest was still pretty severe. The burns she and Belle had suffered were admittedly minor by comparison to what they _could_ have been, but they still hurt like a bitch (and didn’t look very aesthetically pleasing either).

And the pain. Ugh. The pain was nearly constant. She’d stopped taking the pills the doctor had given her – the addiction videos did their proper job of scaring the living daylights out of her – but now she was left at a constant 6-7/10 pain scale (definitely the level of one of the miserable looking emojis) and it was negatively impacting just about every part of her life.

“For God’s sake, Emma, is there any meal you _will_ eat?!” David snapped at her, deeply frustrated by her current distaste for all food that wasn’t ice cream, frozen yogurt, or milkshakes.

“Sorry, _dad_ , I’m just not feeling lasagna today. Especially not since you most definitely just bought this from Granny.”

“Well my pregnant wife and I got sick of putting in so much effort to try to cook you delicious, homemade meals just to have you turn your nose up at them! I know you’re going through a lot, Emma, but, quite honestly, you’re acting like a toddler. Mary Margaret and I are happy to have you here and we love you but _I swear to God if you don’t eat this lasagna I’m going to throw it at you_.”

Yeah, most people were at their breaking point with her.

Killian was the most patient, of course, but he’d finally broken just the day before. And what a delightful _break_ that was ( _sarcasm_ ).

You see, if this had been some movie, then Emma would have done some rehab to the tune of a quirky alternative rock song, would have had some montage where she slowly healed and Killian helped her do things while she beamed with her incandescent love, and most importantly she would have been on his fucking boat when he finally needed to get down to business (and not to defeat the Huns).

Ever since she woke up in the hospital she’d been dreaming of that first piratey excursion they’d have after her recovery. She’d probably have some bandages but play it off like it was all part of the costume. It would be fulfilling. Triumphant. It would make her forget how fucking stupid she could be sometimes and how that affected the people around her.

But no. The meds had made her loopy and the lack of meds had made her cranky. Saltwater hitting her wounds was a super ouchy – she discovered that just sitting at the goddamn docks, no less – and it turned out the rocking of the boat was something that really angered her severely battered insides.

So, yeah. Killian had to get back to work, had to execute some of her meticulously crafted plans – without her.

Today was the first one. It was the start of a weeklong camp, and Emma had been so excited for it. They were going to cover the history of the town, the types of creatures in the waters below them. And most importantly, they were going to tell _stories_. In trying to figure out how exactly to make these summer kid-adventures more interesting (and different from things they already offered), Emma wracked her brain about what really appeals to kids – what they want and what they _need_.

She’d had a shit life. Obviously. Well, most of it, anyway. But as is true with anyone, she still had those bright spots in her life that shone through all the darkness. Oddly enough, most of them involved _fiction_.

That’s what hit her. The reason that Killian’s pirate ship tours were so interesting wasn’t because people were interested in _actual pirates_ – no, historically they were rapists, murderers, and thieves with halitosis and scurvy. What people were interested in were the _stories_. The folk legends. The fairy tales. So on the last two days of this camp, Killian would tell stories of his own – fake ones, of course, as Belle had already done a lesson on the “real” pirates of the region – and then the kids would create their own.

It’s something Emma had done a lot. Not in a controlled, educational setting, of course. More like while hiding in the woods from her abusive, mentally unstable foster father who was threatening to kill her and all the kids with a sawed off shotgun. But it was the same concept. We’re fascinated by fantastical things, fictional adventures, but when it comes down to it, we have all the ability inside us to create our own worlds and stories. And that’s something really powerful for kids – even the ones who aren’t damaged beyond all belief.

You could say Emma was bitter the night before Killian’s camp began, seeing as she wouldn’t be participating. In fact, the _pregnant lady_ was going in her place, because apparently growing a child allowed you more capabilities than her own predicament did.

So she _may have_ started a fight with Killian just before bed.

Despite it being less than 24 hours prior to her lasagna refusal, the details of the encounter were escaping her. What she _didn’t_ forget, however, was Killian’s meltdown. It went something to the tune of _you’re the one who put yourself in danger and tried to fucking leave me_ and _you think you get to hold the burning building card forever, well I’ve got the same card in my pocket_ and _I love you so much I can’t even put it into words but funny enough I have a lot of words for you right now that have nothing to do with love_.

Emma reacted like a brat, which wasn’t fair. And Killian didn’t call her a brat – or any other _b_ word for that matter – but she could see it in his eyes.

It was so damn frustrating not recovering quickly. Why couldn’t she just be Buffy Summers? Ugh. That’s right. Thinking she was Buffy Summers is exactly what got her into this mess in the first place.

(Non-slayers should probably await the firefighters’ assistance when exiting a burning building. She’s learned her lesson. Please, no more lectures.)

“Emma!” David’s voice boomed, bringing her out of her bitter reverie.

“ _What_?” (She sounded like a sullen teenager, even to herself.)

“I’m giving you ten seconds to start eating that lasagna. One.”

“Or what, you’ll burn all my stuff? Too late. ”

“Two.”

“David, I’m not a child!”

“Three.”

“Seriously, you need to stop this.”

“Four.”

“You realize your kid isn’t even born yet, and you’ll already an annoying father.”

“Five.”

“You’re really not going to give this up, are you?”

“Six.”

“I’m going to text your wife and tell her you’re having some kind of pre-baby meltdown.”

“Seven.”

“Remember how I have serious injuries?!”

“Eight.”

“Burns and scrapes and sprains!”

“Nine.”

Emma crossed her arms and stared, _I dare you_ written across her eyes.

“Ten.”

Before Emma could open her mouth to triumphantly declare having called David’s bluff, he reached over the table, picked her slice of lasagna up off her plate –

 –  and (gently) smashed it onto her skull.

“What the hell?!”

“I warned you. Now go clean up while I cut you another piece. That you’ll fucking eat this time.”

David wasn’t one to swear very often. He was very _Steve Rodgers_ about it all.

But Emma had broken him. Just like she’d broken everyone else.

-

The kids couldn’t have been happier. It was a lovely summer day – the storms of the weekend had given the coast the drink it desperately needed, so the flowers were blooming bright and the trees and grasses were greener than ever. The fish were jumping and the birds were cawing and there couldn’t possibly be a single thing missing in that perfect day.

You know, except his pirate princess of a partner.

She was feeling like shit. And he was trying _so hard_ to just let her work through it all herself. Her guilt about everything was tangible, her mild regret about her heroics constantly on her mind – especially when it came to the limitations it was currently imposing on her. He knew that she was being a bitch because she was in pain and missing out on things and sorely unable to take the next step they’d promised each other because of her slow progress.

But there was only so much a man could take.

He regretting yelling at her. Why it had turned to a fight the previous night, he really couldn’t be sure. But he’d been bottling some bitter of his own and the thing about pushing down your feelings is that they inevitably come bursting out. Generally at a most inopportune moment.

So Emma had slept on the pull-out couch rather than in the guest room (their room), and he’d left in the morning before she’d awoken, and now he was on his ship carrying out her wonderful plans, all without her.

Mary Margaret could tell he was only _half_ there. She was picking up a lot of his slack like a damn champ. She was answering all the kids’ questions and keeping them excited, even when Killian had clearly been somewhere else in his head. He was endlessly grateful for the fairer Nolan for putting her child-corralling expertise into practice while he… gathered his bearings.

He’d get through today. He’d put on a great show for the kids, make sure they learned something and were excited for tomorrow, and then he’d get home and fix things with his admittedly still ailing princess.

 _Deep breaths_.

-

After washing her hair (and changing her shirt), Emma quietly walked back to the kitchen, sat down at her place at the table, and ate two full pieces of lasagna without a word. David just stood there, arms crossed, looking at everything but Emma (while clearly also keeping an eye on her in his periphery to make sure she wasn’t tossing scraps in the trash).

With the newspaper already opened in front of her, Emma started browsing. The police reports were always fun – small seaside towns had some quirky little problems, to be sure – but it was the Classifieds that caught her attention most.

Especially the 2-bedroom house for rent just a couple of blocks from where Killian kept his ship. It was so close to the water that they could probably _see_ the shore from the upstairs. Was that where the bedrooms were? Could Emma get so lucky as to live in a house overlooking the sea with her perfect pirate prince?

(Her life was never this easy.)

It was around one in the afternoon, so Mary Margaret and Killian wouldn’t be home for at least another three hours – more if the kids really wreaked havoc on the ship (hopefully not). And David didn’t have to go into work until 7 (he was doing overnights since Emma needed someone with her in the daytime, yes, like a fucking child).

She shouldn’t be asking David for any favors, but this one was probably acceptable. Because it was a big step and hopefully at least somewhat proof that Emma could do more than brood (and yell at the people who love her).  

“Hey, do you think we could swing by this house? Pretty please?”

“Not until you shower. You still smell like marinara.” When Emma finally met David’s eyes, they softened and his scowl gave way to a smirk. (Guess she only broke him momentarily).

 

The house wasn’t _that_ far from the Nolans’ so they were there by two that afternoon. And as luck would have it, the agent was having an open house until three. So after staring at it from the outside for far too long (she still had _some_ fear, OK?), David and Emma walked up to the door and knocked.

“Hello! Are you folks interested in the house?” A bright-eyed redhead (who wore far too much green) greeted them, ushering them into the foyer.

She was struck by the… _cuteness_ of the place. It wasn’t the vast, column-adorned mansion type. And it wasn’t a cottage in the woods. But it was homey. It was _sweet_.

And why the fuck was it just for _rent_?

“Uh, well, yeah. I mean _I’m_ interested in the house. This is my… brother. He’s just, um, helping me.” Emma unconsciously tugged at one of her bandages, suddenly feeling awkward about needing a chaperone. But the woman seemed to realize immediately who she was.

“Oh my goodness! You’re Emma Swan, aren’t you? The girl who tried to save the meth head?”

“Uh, I think it was PCP, but yeah. That’s me. Hence the bodyguard. Sorry.”

“Goodness, no, don’t be sorry. I suppose I should be sorry for being so forward. I do hope you’re recovering well.” She extended her hand and offered another, more sincere smile. “I’m Zelena.”

What a name. “Nice to meet you. This is David. He’s here to stop me from running _toward_ fire. At least until these heal.”

“It really was a wonderful thing you did. It seems Jefferson is finally going to get the help he needs.”

“What he needs is a punch to the face,” David muttered, but Zelena either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore it.

“Can I show you around?” she asked, Emma already wandering about to see the details of each room.

“Yeah, but I mean, I’m already thinking this is too good to be true. Why would someone put this up for rent? It’s so… nice.”

“Well, renting doesn’t mean slumming it, my dear. I’m truly sorry for the loss of your last home, but renting doesn’t always mean it’s small apartments with crappy heat and thin walls. The gentleman who owns this property and many others simply enjoys renovating houses. And he’s found that he generates a nice, steady income from renting them out. And he likes to give people a starter home they can be proud of. Is that something you’re looking for?”

God, if she only knew. “Yes, yeah, that’s… that’s what I need.”

“Then allow me to show you around.”

The tour really only solidified her _too good to be true_ feelings (worries). The carpets were new and the walls were freshly painted. The bay window in their (hypothetical) bedroom would be perfect for curling up and reading. The closets were small, but the basement wasn’t awful, so they’d certainly have room for storage.

And best of all, their view of the bay was _perfect_. So perfect, in fact, that she could _literally see_ Killian’s ship, out there on the water, molding young minds to be adventurers, explorers and dreamers.

(And yeah, that second bedroom might someday be able to hold a young adventurer, explorer, and dreamer who just so happened to share DNA with her and Killian.)

In short, it was pretty damn perfect.

“Now, I do have several people interested already, but I know that glint in your eye, Ms. Swan. You’ve found your home, haven’t you?”

It was a tactic. Emma _knew_ this. She could spot a slimy salesperson from, well, all the way out to the ocean, probably.

But it’s not as if Zelena was _wrong_.

-

The kids had been incredible. It kind of made him feel guilty for being the little shit he was as a child, but it’s all about circumstance. He didn’t have nearly the support these kids did.

Then again, if he had, he may never have crossed the pond, may never have met Milah, may never have loved her and lost her and then found himself on a ‘pirate’ ship and living in a tiny apartment, just one thin wall away from what would become a most magical journey.

It’s funny to think about cause and effect. Because sometimes it could set your insides on fire with anger, with guilt, with regret. But there were those other moments that the cause was something unexpected, terrible, that you’d never wish on your worst enemy – and somehow the effect was, what – happily ever after?

(The lesson plans and _build the kids’ imaginations_ was clearly affecting him.)

Once he’d put the Emma situation (mostly) out of his head, it was a really great day. They talked about colonization and the ships that came to America from the far-off lands. They talked about the wars that had been fought here, the things that had been discovered. And they talked about the heroes of Storybrooke and other surrounding areas – the corrupt mayor who’d been defeated by a brave young woman, the young boy who’d stopped the curse of scarlet fever, the brave huntsman who’d given his life to save a young princess from a faraway land. There were historical accounts of each of those tales, of course, but they weren’t quite as fun as the folksy versions. Killian was careful to tell both, though, and the kids were captivated.

When he bid them all farewell and he and Mary Margaret packed up their things, they both had a _glow_ about them (and his clearly had nothing to do with pregnancy). It was more fulfilling than he’d ever imagined to be using his powers for _good_ , so to speak.

Frat boys guzzling rum made him money, but damn did this new arrangement just give him so much _more_.

“What do you think the whiner and her warden have prepared for us for dinner?” Mary Margaret asked, her being the only one really taking Emma’s constant crankiness in stride.

“Oh, who knows. Emma probably won’t even be there. I sense she’ll be avoiding me. Again.”

“Oh, she will not. I heard your fight – well, part of it. Our walls aren’t _that_ thin. But you needed to let it out! And I know her. She’ll understand. And maybe you showing how her sullenness is affecting you will finally make her clean up her act a little bit. I love her, but _damn_. She’s a level of bitter I haven’t experienced before. And I was there when she was attempting to live _in her car_.”

“I know all the stories, Mary Margaret. I think she’s angrier because she was happier? I think the fight last night started all because she’s just mad that she couldn’t go on the ship today. After all her planning and being so dedicated to trying to really cultivate the whole ‘educational’ and ‘family’ aspect of the business, she’s stuck at home. She’s taking it out on us which is super not OK, obviously. But I know from experience that your emotions hit you harder when there’s actually something you feel you _lost_.”

“Well I’m sure she’d recover faster if she’d just _try_ a little harder. But don’t tell her I said that.” Mary Margaret looked over at Killian and smiled for a moment before focusing back on the task of backing into their driveway. It was nice, the camaraderie he had with Mary Margaret and David, Emma’s only “family” – despite their not being blood-related.

They were all this little unit. Along with Belle and Will and Regina and Ruby and Robin – somehow Killian had found his people.

All because of _Emma_.

When Mary Margaret and Killian entered the home, they found a surprising sight: Emma and David were making dinner. Together.

Emma was actually contributing to the meal’s preparation. She was even – _gasp_ – smiling?

Until she saw _him_. At that point her expression morphed to something between fear and panic. Was he accidentally dressed like Freddy Kruger?

“You’re home!” Emma stuttered, visibly nervous.

“I can finish this. Why don’t you go… chat?” David suggested, bumping Emma out of the way with his hip while he stirred what looked like sauce.

“Uh, ok. Just… keep stirring.”

“Just keep stirring, just keep stirring, just keep stirring, stirring, stirring,” David started singing, continually moving the wooden spoon through the substance in the skillet.

“David. You’re not Dory,” Emma chided, a hint of a smile on the corners of her lips.

(David was breaking tension. Which meant there was something up. Fuck, he couldn’t deal with any more drama.)

Emma approached him overly cautiously – the kiss she laid on his cheek so quick he barely felt it. “We’re having this tortellini veggie bake that I found on Pinterest and I don’t want him to fuck it up. I’ve read it’s delicious.” Emma seemed to be trying to explain her nervousness away, to blame it on cooking. But there was definitely something more going on.

She took his hand and led them to their room, Emma awkwardly standing in the doorway even as Killian sat down on the bed. She was quiet for far too long, staring all over the room instead of looking at him.

Until she finally blurted out, “please don’t be mad at me!”

Which took him by surprise. “Uhhh, are you talking about last night? Because I was just frustrated and I shouldn’t have said what I did – I’m annoyed at you, admittedly, but I’m not _mad_ , per se, and I don’t want you to think I hate you because I don’t, I’m just – ”

“No, Killian, I get it. I’ve been a bitter, frustrated bitch and it’s not fair and you needed to get it out. No harm done except me feeling guilty for being awful. That’s – that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then why would I be mad?”

“Well, you know how you worried that I’d be mad when you made a big decision without asking me?”

“… yes?”

“You really don’t see where I’m going with this?”

“Yes, Emma, I obviously see that you made a decision without me, but I’m not sure what that decision might have been so I’m waiting for you to explain it before I assure you I’m not mad!”

“Well, I may have, um… put down security deposit and first and last month’s rent on a house. It’s adorable! I promise! And it overlooks the water and has a bay window and it’s mostly new and we don’t have to share any walls with psychopaths and it has a brand new fire alarm and sprinkler systems and a fireplace and I just want us to move forward and I’m sorry that I’m terrible at recovering and I know I should have asked you first but you were with the kids and I knew you couldn’t text or call and the slimy sales lady was all _I have other people interested_ and making me feel like I had no choice but to take it _right that second_ and I shouldn’t have fallen for it, but Killian, _it’s our house_. I could _feel_ it. So. I took the leap.”

Emma was out of breath from her babbling, so Killian gave her a moment just to breathe, to attempt relaxation – however impossible that might be. And then he stood, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to sit next to him. He put his hand on her leg and gripped it tightly, willing her to listen to his words and stop her damn panicking.

“Emma. We have got to stop worrying that each other is going to leave just because we took a positive step forward. Or, perhaps we need to communicate with each other before taking steps. I don’t know, it’s one of the two. But the point is: I’m very happy that you found us a house. It sounds perfect. And I’m so happy to be starting a life with you. Not that it hasn’t already started. I mean, we’ve kind of been living a joint life for a while now. But you know what I’m saying. We’ll start our _fully independent_ life together.”

“I know I should have resolved last night especially first. I’ve been terrible. I’m still going to be terrible – I swear I can only control my snark about 45% of the time. I resolved long ago, just after everything with Graham, that I wouldn’t ever use you as a punching bag. Even when you’re offering yourself up for it. And I failed. I know that. I know I let myself just let go and take everything out on you and Mary Margaret and David. I know that’s why Robin won’t even come visit and why Belle gets short with me. I mean we dealt with the same trauma and yet I’m the only one going all Cruella de Vil because of it. I’m working on it. I promise to _always_ work on it. Because, you know, I love you.”

“As I love you. Now how about you show me this home I apparently have because _somebody_ just couldn’t wait…” Killian put his forehead against hers, brushing her cheek with his thumb.

“After dinner. I’m serious about the tortellini. It’s supposed to be near godly and it took us a very ungodly amount of time to cook it, so we’re damn well eating it. But then I’ll take you to see the house! It’s perfect. I promise I made a good decision, even if I shouldn’t have done so alone.”

“Oh, love, any house would be perfect with you in it.” Killian kissed her cheek, her nose, her forehead, and then captured her lips in a deep, loving kiss.

“Only my dinner should be _that_ cheesy, Jones.”


	26. (Im)Perfect

“I swear to God, Mary Margaret, if you make me go into  _one more store_ , I’m going to set you on fire.”

The mall was crowded – it was a gloomy Saturday and there wasn’t much else to do but window shop and people watch – so Emma’s shouting (unfortunately) garnered quite a bit of attention.

And guess what? She couldn’t care less.

“First of all, Emma, the  _fire_  references are no longer funny. OK, they never  _were_  funny, but I’m officially calling Time of Death on tolerating them. Second – and more importantly – you have to completely start over here. You’re building a home! And you have very little to fill it with. You need to explore, to look around and see what you want. It’s more important than you’re realizing.”

_Eye roll_. “It’s just  _stuff_ , Mary Margaret. You know me well enough to know that I don’t give a shit about the things that I own. I’ve lived on next to nothing, so why the hell should I care if my pot holders match my tea kettle?!” She was still shouting. It would be easy to pretend she was merely enjoying the full use of her lungs now that she’d mostly recovered from the  _smoke inhalation_  damage, but the fact was she just snapped a little and lost all volume control in the process.

Mary Margaret approached her carefully, her eyes sad when Emma knew she deserved  _anger_  or  _frustration_  at the moment. “Don’t you see, Emma? That’s exactly  _why_  this matters. You’ve never had anything. And  _now you do_. It’s just stuff, yes, but it’s symbolic. It’s  _yours_. You deserve to own things that, sure, have a perfectly reasonable function. But they’re allowed to represent you. You  _and_  Killian. Together. So, please, stop scowling at dinnerware sets and just enjoy the fact that you’re about to start a life that a version of you never dreamed was possible.”

The thing was: Emma didn’t like shopping. Even under the best circumstances. And today – well, this wasn’t the  _worst_  circumstances. It was good, actually. She was feeling better – functional, even – and she and Killian had signed all the appropriate paperwork to move into their cute little house. But she was tired. And hungry. And truly didn’t give a crap about what patterns were on her plates.

But Mary Margaret wasn’t  _wrong_. The fire had been dreadful, obviously, and dangerous and all kinds of awful. But it also did that whole  _cleansing_  thing where you destroy the old to make way for the new. She didn’t have to cook in pans Mary Margaret had passed down to her. She didn’t have to keep using the fan she got for $2.50 at a yard sale. She didn’t need to cling to the ratty afghan she’d taken from one of her foster homes ages ago (even though it truly was cozy). She could start over. Things could be hers.

_Theirs_.

She and Killian would obviously be doing the actual purchasing, but Mary Margaret had desperately just wanted Emma to  _look_. Something about how if Emma refused to make a Pinterest board for  _Home Stuff_  then she’d just have to go out in the real world for ideas.

But she was tired.

“Can we just go get a pretzel? I appreciate the sentiment, and you’re right. About all of that. But I’m just – I’m not really in the mood for fawning over pillows with anchors on them. Even though I know they’ll inevitably end up on my couch because Killian is predictable and corny.” A smile was finally creeping onto her face, she could  _feel_  it, and Mary Margaret responded with a kind nod.

It had been a whirlwind of a week. Killian and Mary Margaret had been manning the summer camp ship (and with  _wild_  success). Emma had recommitted herself to a more cheerful recovery and a bitterness reduction, making dinner with David each night and doing all of her PT-recommended activities in the day. She and Killian would retire to their room after dinner was all cleaned up, talking business and new house and budget and renter’s insurance and all kinds of super productive, uber-adulty things.

It was reasonable and rational and really just pure shit.

No, it wasn’t. But it was still a drag, spending all of her time and energy on the stuff she needed – and not what she  _wanted_. Which was to celebrate with her Captain the giant step they were taking.

But there were things to be done and bodies to be healed and so the logistics talk of 8pm turned into the  _you need your rest, so come let’s cuddle_  of 9pm and then it was up and at ‘em to another day of busy and planning and just –

No sex. No steamy makeouts. No Netflix and Chill or Hulu and hand jobs or whatever the kids were saying these days. It had been  _so long_  since she and Killian could just  _be_  together – even non-naked – and the frustration was mounting ( _ha_ ), especially as her body continued to recover.

Maybe it would be easier to focus on which bedspread she thought would go best in their new master bedroom if she’d been bedded at all in the last month or so.

_Groan_. Apparently a nice cheesy pretzel would have to suffice.

Auntie Anne’s had only been a short walk from the Home Goods store Emma had melted down in front of, so only minutes had passed and the two of them were seated at a silly table with an unnecessary umbrella chowing on salty goodness and washing it down with sugary lemonade.

“So what do you think you’ll do with the second bedroom?” Mary Margaret asked, her eyes not on Emma but on the excess salt on her pretzel.

“Office, probably. I mean, we’ll put a bed in there for guests and everything, but we’ll add a desk, too. In case we want to do work in a half-professional manner and not just with our laptops propped on the couch pillows.”

Mary Margaret hummed and nodded, seemingly satisfied with Emma’s answer. When really Emma knew exactly what she was thinking.

Babies.

It was probably hard to think of anything else when you had one constantly kicking your bladder or whatever they were doing at that stage of development.

And, yes, Emma had thought about it, the whole family thing. She could definitely see her and Killian with kids – restless, brave, adventurous souls, to be certain.

_But, you know, one thing at a time, Mary Margaret. God._

“I’m thinking of getting one of those little portable grill things, though. For the back deck thing, I mean, not for the bedroom. Obviously. We’ve never really had  _outdoor space_  and even though this is fairly small, it’ll be nice. You know, to sit outside. Grill some pineapple. The nice, lazy Sunday kind of stuff.”

Mary Margaret finally made eye contact. “You deserve some very lazy Sundays, you know.”

-

The first summer camp had been an unbridled success. 

The kids were happy. The parents were happy.  _He_  was happy. They'd had fun and made so much progress in getting the kids excited to learn and create and this -  _this_ was what he should have been doing all along. Yeah, he'd still book the night rides and the corporate gigs and maybe even a college party or two, but working on something bigger than rum and Instagram-worthy sunsets - it's exactly what he's always needed.

Emma. Emma was what he'd always needed and never really knew. Not until she banged on his door and barged into his life, so resistant at first and yet so  _right_. He was his own man, of course. This wasn't some codependent bullshit. But she'd nudged him in all the right directions, and now he just - well he sounded like a loon even in his own head because the happiness had made him delirious and probably quite insufferable. 

But there were still hiccups, of course. He'd wanted Emma to be on the ship the previous week, first of all. He'd been especially distracted the first few days, just worrying about her and then feeling guilty when he  _wasn't_  worrying about her. And the nights they spent together - they were cherished, of course - she could have died in a bloody fire not too long ago - but they were also lacking their usual luster. It was always about plans and business and never just playing video games or watching movies or talking about the various flaws in the book-to-movie adaptations of the Harry Potter series or, you know, making love until they were so exhausted they fell asleep wherever they finally landed.

The future was bright - there would be plenty of nights together for, hopefully, the rest of forever. But that didn't mean it wasn't frustrating  _now_.

When the weekend came there was a certain assumption that he might actually get some alone time with his pirate princess. But, as it turned out, he had to do a few Skype calls with his lawyer and the insurance guys - both bitter to be working on a weekend, no less - and so Mary Margaret swept Emma off to the mall for "inspiration" or some shit, and he stayed behind to play stuffy businessman for the morning.

They were getting there. Slowly but surely he was finding what the kids in all their folk stories and fairy tales would call a  _happily ever after_.

-

Begrudgingly, Emma had entered three more department stores after the pretzel fuel-up. It really wasn't the worst. After Mary Margaret had put some things into perspective, Emma had opened her mind up a little (also begrudgingly) and imagined some pieces in her house. She'd even picked some things up to show Mary Margaret and get her opinion - but that was all but a lost cause. Mary Margaret was more about finding a theme and sticking to it. A color scheme. A repeating pattern. Emma liked eclectic. She liked  _personality_. She did not need every single item in her kitchen to have an apple on it, even though she'd picked up one apple-covered serving dish. 

It's a good thing she was starting a life with Killian and not Mary Margaret. They would most definitely  _clash_.

Once Mary Margaret was satisfied that Emma had gotten a good idea of her options, they hopped back in the car and headed home, chatting mostly about the previous week's summer camp on their drive.

"... and you wouldn't believe this one boy. Completely obsessed with dragons. Every single story he wrote ended with a dragon. No matter what kind of scenario Killian or I presented. And his parents are doctors and can afford  _everything_  so he has dragon shoes, a dragon backpack, and I think I overheard another boy saying he has a jungle gym at home with an actual carved dragon on it."

"Damn," Emma responded. "I didn't know people like that actually existed. Are we running a camp for Storybrooke's most privileged kids or what?"

"Well, you know it does cost money to participate in the summer camp. And for good reason! I'm not saying Killian or you overcharge. But you're certainly more likely to get Richie Rich than Orphan Annie."

"Yeah, yeah you're right. I guess I just - I hadn't thought of it." The truth was that Emma  _had_  thought of it. She'd talked about it, even, with Killian. They obviously couldn't run the camp for free, but how would kids like  _she_  was ever be able to participate unless it was for a school field trip? They really weren't sure. And with the business being so new - well, it was hard to see into the future to know their success, their impact, whatever. 

They were doing their best.

(And their best would be enough, said a little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Mary Margaret.)

When they arrived at the Nolans' David was outside mowing and Killian was "supervising" from the porch, two cups of iced tea in his hands. 

"You taking good care of your boyfriend, I see?" Emma called as she slid out of the car and started up the sidewalk.

"No, love, this is for you. Mary Margaret alerted me to your return, and I wanted to be prepared. She indicated the trip was... tense?"

"She doesn't seem to get that I don't give a fuck about china patterns."

"I wasn't asking you to pick china patterns, Emma!" Mary Margaret defended, loudly and with a distinct screech.

Killian leaned down to kiss Emma's forehead as he handed her the cool glass and it was like the morning's worries had decreased by at  _least_  half.

"How was your morning?" she asked, leading him to the wicker chairs (that matched the house and the rug and the bird feeders, by the way) and plopping down in his lap (personal space was overrated). 

"Dull. But everything is definitely squared away, so at least I've accomplished something."

"Unlike your girlfriend," Mary Margaret grumbled. 

Steadfastly ignoring her, Emma sipped at her tea and then nuzzled her forehead into Killian's neck, just enjoying the smell of the mowed grass and the feel of her best friend/boyfriend/brand new roommate's arms around her.

They'd come such a long way.

Killian downed the rest of his tea and returned both hands to Emma, stroking her back and toying with her hair and overall making her feel all warm and fuzzy and content inside despite David's constant swearing at the rocks he was hitting in the deeper grass behind the house.

"Zelena called while you were out, by the way," Killian mumbled into her hair.

"Oh?"

"She said we can move in as early as tomorrow. We just need to tell her what day we want and then I guess the guy will prorate the month's rent based on how many days we actually live there."

"Oh, wow. I just - I assumed that we'd have to wait until the first of the month."

"No, love. We can start our life tomorrow, should we desire it."

"Do you? Desire it, I mean?"

"Well, to be fair I've already started my life with you. As far as I'm concerned."

"So have I."

"So tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

They sat there for God knows how long, just enjoying the rare moment of calm between two very different (but very real) stress storms.

They came out of their little bubble when David shut off the mower and came stomping up the stairs, grumbling about neighbor kids and raccoons or something. He stopped in front of them, almost startled at their presence. 

"I see how it is. You survive  _one_  fire and suddenly you never have to do chores again?" David joked, clearly amused by Emma's state of relaxation.

"It's not my grass. Plus I'll be out of your hair tomorrow, Dave. We got the all-clear on our place!" Saying it out loud to someone other than Killian gave her a rush like the drop of a roller coaster and she already craved telling someone else. She was going to be a little insufferable with her joy and she did not care even one bit.

"And... how exactly will you be doing that, might I ask?"

Emma glanced at Killian, relieved to see that he, too, was confused.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't - I mean, I'm not trying to be insensitive, but... “he trailed off, looking around as if to find someone who could get him out of this conversation. But Mary Margaret didn't magically appear (guess they weren't telepathic like Emma often suspected), so he finished his thought. "You guys don't have anything to move."

The deflation of her  _soul_  those simple words caused was tangible. Probably visible if the near-regret in David's eyes was anything to go on.

Mary Margaret had been urging Emma to think of her new home and what she wanted to fill it with and cranky, sexually frustrated Emma resisted and tried to procrastinate and now here it was - the time they could move - and the obvious hadn't hit her.

They had next to nothing.

"But - I don't want to wait," Emma all but whined, her voice sounding small even to herself.

Killian rubbed his arms up and down her back, squeezing her more tightly when he felt her shake a little. 

"Don't worry, love. Tomorrow shall be a shopping spree!"

Killian sounded like a kid on Christmas and his enthusiasm was contagious - even though David hurried to tell them they didn't need to rush and they could stay as long as they wanted and they should really think long and hard about the things they wanted to fill their house with rather than buying whatever the heck they saw first at the store.

But Emma tuned him out. She was moving in with her boyfriend tomorrow.

-

Mary Margaret and David were the most annoying parents on the planet and their child was as of yet to be born.

As soon as Emma and Killian made it clear that they were absolutely, most definitely moving into their new house tomorrow, the couple went into overdrive, making lists and searching local department store websites for prices and inventory and any bargains or coupons or incentives. Mary Margaret was shuffling around the house, raiding closets and drawers and shelves for items "just to use for the time being" and "you know, just to get you started." Emma kept refusing, but Killian was genuinely concerned that Mary Margaret was going to go into early labor if they refused her help, so he just whispered  _Swan, let her have this one_ each time Emma tried to argue. 

They were about an hour into comparing furniture designs and prices when David remarked that it was simply too bad that they didn't know the measurements of the house offhand - if they knew a couch/bed/etc. would fit, they could order it right now.

Which was when Emma seemed to have a light bulb switch on above her head like a damned cartoon.

"We'll find out!" she shouted, jumping up from the recliner she'd been leaning on. 

"It's probably a little late to call Zelena, don't you think? It's not even a work day," Mary Margaret warned.

"No, yeah, of course I'm not going to bother her. I just mean - well, no one is at the house and I have some pretty excellent lock picking skills that are sorely going to waste."

"Excuse me, young lady,  _cop present_ ," David shouted, purely scandalized.

Emma just rolled her eyes and grabbed Killian's hand, tugging him toward the door. "You gonna turn me in?"

"Emma, now is not the time. It can wait until morning."

"You  _just_  said that it would be helpful to know the dimensions. Killian and I will slip on in there, measure it up, and come back ready to start ordering!"

Emma stopped off at the front closet of the Nolans' house, grabbing a few tools (and a measuring tape) and threw them in her bag, tossing it over her shoulder and retaking Killian's hand in a span of two seconds flat. Clearly something was happening here beyond measurements because not ten minutes before Emma had been tired and utterly disinterested in choosing a sofa or a kitchen table. Now her excitement was definitely an eleven on a scale of one to ten and while he was certainly happy to see her so enthusiastic, he also had some genuine confusion over the motivation.

Unless she really, really just needed a break from the helicopter parents that were her best friends.

Yeah, that was probably it. 

The house was within walking distance and the sun was still a ways from setting so they decided to walk to their new home, hand-in-hand and truly giddy (they had a  _home_ ).

When it seemed that they were far enough away from the house that no gentle breeze and open window would allow the Nolans to hear his words, Killian turned to Emma, eyebrow quirked in silent question.

"We seriously needed out of there, right? They're nuts! We're going to be fine. It's not like the whole house needs an Interior Design team. Right? We can start with some basics and add as we go?"

The Nolans - Mary Margaret, especially - had been so persuasive and adamant in their demands, even Killian had started to believe some of what they were suggesting Emma and Killian simply couldn't live without from day one. But now, with some fresh air and  _space_ , he could see even more clearly what Emma obviously had as well.

They actually were going to be just fine on their own.

"You can't blame them for being that way. They just really, really want you to be happy, Swan."

She slowly moved in front of him and grasped his other hand as well, squeezing tightly as she locked eyes with him. "They want  _us_  to be happy, Killian. They're your people, too."

"I know, love. But my god is that love smothering at times!"

They continued their walk, going over the most ridiculous things that had been said by their friends in the course of the last few hours and sharing what retorts they'd  _wanted_  to say versus what they'd actually responded with and before they knew it, their new home was right in front of them.

"It looks so pretty in the sunset," Emma breathed, utterly amazed by what honestly amounted to an average, modest dwelling.

But he was amazed, too. "Aye."

" _Aye_ ," she (poorly) imitated his accent. "But I'm the pirate now. Watch me work, babe."

With that Emma took out some tools from her bag - small wrenches it looked like - and started picking at the lock on the surprisingly old door. It only took a minute or so for him to hear a distinct click followed by a hushed whoop of glee and, finally, the creaking of the door as Emma swung it open. 

He'd seen it already, of course. Emma had taken him back there after she'd already secured it. But knowing it wasn't just this thing that was happening in the future, that this was going to be all theirs come  _tomorrow_  - it was overwhelming.

And absolutely made it ten times more beautiful than when he first saw it. 

Emma pulled out the measuring tape and tossed her bag in the corner, slipping off her boots so as not to track anything on  _their_  carpet. "What kind of couch do you want, anyway? I feel like I only know what Mary Margaret and David think is best for us."

"You're not wrong, love. I think I prefer the ones that are fluffy and spacious. I want something we can cuddle on and watch television."

"Isn't that what the bed is for, Killian?"

"I wish to cuddle with you everywhere."

"Is that so?" Emma asked, quirking her eyebrow and putting a little extra swing in her hips as she approached him.

"Of course. You're very cuddly."

"Cuddly, that's what you're going for?"

"Would you prefer a different adjective, love?"

"Well, I wouldn't be opposed to something a little less innocent..." Emma murmured, wrapping her arms around him and kissing around his clavicle. 

"Would you now?" His body was responding to hers but  _fast_ , having been without any non-innocent touch in some time. 

"Is that so hard to believe?" She continued kissing across his shoulder, up his neck, around his earlobe. 

_Jesus she was trying to kill him_.

"Well you already know my feelings on you in that way. But considering all you've been through recently, I didn't think - I wasn't going to assume you wanted to go in this direction."

"What direction?" she asked oh-so-innocently - while raising her thigh to rub against his already painfully hard erection.

"Emmaaaaaa," he groaned, having absolutely not expected  _this_  when he agreed to this venture.

"Killiaaaaaan," she mocked.

He pulled out of her grasp and turned her around so they were both facing the unlit fireplace, his arms enveloping her and her sinking against him in response. "We came here, to our home, to measure for our furniture, love. Not to give into carnal desires only to end up in the ER."

"Are you planning to cut yourself on my measuring tape?" 

"Emma. You were in a  _fire_  a month ago!"

"They never said I couldn't have sex," she reasoned, shrugging her shoulders beneath him.

"I think when one can't breathe, it's just common sense that there won't be any sex."

"But I  _can_  breathe now. And I want you! We need to celebrate. Like you said, this is  _our home_." 

He had absolutely no desire to say no to her in the first place and his body had already jumped on the  _yes_  train about two minutes ago, so Killian just said  _fuck it_ and started raining kisses from Emma's shoulder to her neck before finally catching her mouth with his, despite her still being tucked with her back against his front.

She moaned into it and he felt her tongue immediately sliding against his bottom lip, and goddamn it if he wasn't so hungry for her he could just  _die_.

She squeezed her arms against his around her middle as their tongues tangled together, the spark finally fully igniting. Killian let his arms wander from her waist, trailing up to stroke at her breasts and down to feel the heat radiating between her legs. 

"Swan, there isn't a bed," he grumbled between kisses, still desperately grasping at her body. "Or even a couch."

"So?" Emma turned in his hold to face him, one hand reaching behind his neck to draw him closer and the other sliding down to fumble with the button on his pants.

"So do you fancy rug burn on your knees? Or mine?"

She chuckled but continued her assault, yanking down his zipper and pushing his boxers out of the way until she had him fully in hand, stroking ever-so-lightly.

"We'll do it standing up. It's not like this is going to take long." She looked up at him and winked, removing her hand (thankfully) and pulling off her own top.

"God, I love you," was all Killian could get out before he was stripping himself down, clothes tossed haphazardly around what would become his living room. 

Emma just laughed, a giddy, genuine sound that should have seemed out of place in such a  _frenzy_  of sexual passion - but that fit right in with what made them... them.

Once she'd discarded all of her clothes, she scurried over to the fireplace, leaning her arms against it and jutting her ass out, wiggling it adorably in invitation. Killian accepted ( _obviously_ ), locking eyes with her as she peered at him over her shoulder. "Sorry this is going to be so fast, love." 

"Oh, believe me. I'm just as worked up as you. I'll probably come the second you touch me, so, you know. Just get on with it."

" _Just get on with it_?" He repeated, rolling his eyes.

"Fuck me, Killian." Her eyes were fire and he couldn't have held himself back if there was a fire alarm at that point. 

She moaned loudly as he rubbed himself against her, finding her positively dripping as he lined himself up and pushed in with ease. 

"Holy hell," she breathed, her chest already heaving. 

"So good," he whispered back, both of his hands squeezing her hips with the exertion of trying to make this last longer than thirty fucking seconds.

He rocked against her slowly, deliberately at first, but it only took a few sighs and curses from Emma before he was desperately plunging into her, hard and fast. She kept one hand firmly against the wall, but reached her other back to tangle with his, her moans rapidly rising in pitch as she began to rock back against him stroke for stroke. 

She felt so good around him, so tight at this angle and so warm and it had been so long since he'd had her and it happening here, in their home - it was all too much for him to handle. The emotions, the feel of her walls starting to flutter and squeeze him, it brought him to the edge and right over it, his whole body shaking as he spilled himself deep inside her. They were both gasping for breath and quivering (either from the orgasm or tired muscles, he couldn't be sure), but still firmly connected.

"I love you," she gasped out after a minute or so, her forehead now resting on the hand that was planted against the wall.

"As I love you," he responded, bending further over her to kiss across her back and over to her shoulders.

"Ugh, I didn't really think of cleanup," she groaned, apparently looking down at her thighs that were now more than a little sticky. "Guess I'm going to have to resort to using my underwear."

"Should have thought of that before you attacked me."

She scoffed. "Oh, like you didn't want it."

"Of course I did, love," Killian slowly pulled out of her, quickly bending down to find her panties before they made too noticeable a mess. "But I always want you. So that's not ever really going to be an issue."

But she suddenly didn't seem to care so much about the mess, taking the cloth from him but then wrapping her arms around him and pulling him so their lips were just inches apart. "This is our home, Killian."

He felt just as amazed as she looked and so what if there was semen on their brand new carpet? They'd bring the Lysol tomorrow.

This was their home.

-

Move-in was the fucking worst. 

Emma and Killian had  _steadfastly_  decided that they were only going to buy the basics that first day. Bed, trash cans, food, TV, whatever. They already had bought most of their bathroom-type things and had been keeping them at the Nolans', but they figured they could probably buy some more clothes while they were out, if they had time.

But, no. Mary Margaret and David had apparently recruited everyone and their fucking brother to help them that day and had insisted on full  _everything_. They couldn't  _just_  get a bed - they had to get the whole bed  _set_! And they couldn't just have a TV sitting on the floor - they needed an  _entertainment center_! And quite frankly Emma was too fucking tired to argue.

The night before had been perfect. She'd finally gotten some alone time with Killian (and some satisfying alone time, at that). They'd made a good amount of decisions about the types of things they wanted for their house. 

But they hadn't planned on  _buying_  them the very next day.

Hadn't it been Mary Margaret and David who had warned them to wait? Apparently once they started something they were just going at full speed until they hit a fucking brick wall.

A brick wall named Emma.

"Guys! Didn't we talk about this? We have enough money. Stop trying to buy us shit!"

Robin had gotten them a toaster oven, which was very sweet and relatively small. That was OK. Belle had sent Will with a beautiful picture for their wall - the whole crew of them on the  _Jewel_  for Ruby's going away party. That was thoughtful and sweet. But then Mary Margaret and David were insisting on buying them a washer and dryer set. A set! It was something like $1,600 and while Emma was trying to be cool with letting her makeshift "parents" help out, enough was fucking enough.

"But we just want to help you, Emma! You've been through so much. You both have! And not just the fire. This is your happy ending! You made it! I just want to provide pieces of it for you."

"For god's sake, woman, you already have! The important stuff, too. Not things. I know you say things are symbolic, but quite honestly fuck the symbols. The only thing I need from you is love and support and friendship. And perhaps your recipe for Mexican hot chocolate cookies. My point is: yes, I made it. I did! I'm already here. You don't have to keep giving. I'm  _good_."

Will and Robin were seemingly trying to teleport themselves out of this conversation and Killian and David were mostly just staring at their women and the women were staring at each other and everything was just too tense and awkward and this was supposed to be a happy day, not another goddamn meltdown.

"Are we cool?" Emma finally asked.

"Yes, we're - we're cool. But we're also never going to just... stop being overbearing and excessive. I've decided it's my job. And David will back me up because he always backs me up. And Robin and Will, they're on board, too, even if they don't realize it."

"You know what I'm on board with?" Will chimed in. "Pizza. It's what you do when you move people, right? You order pizza. I say it's pizza time."

So they drove their (many) rented trucks back to the (adorable) rented house and sat down at the (expensive) non-rented table that Killian actually really did want, despite not having planned on buying one, and their scrappy little family ate way too much cheese and toasted with only semi-chilled beer to all the shit that led them here.

-

The air was already warm, despite the sun having just risen, when Killian first stepped aboard his ship that Monday morning. The kids wouldn't be there for another hour or so, but he wanted to make sure that all the activities were properly lined up - after all, the previous week he'd leaned quite a bit on Mary Margaret to do the teacher-y things while he pouted. Or brooded. Whatever it was. But Mary Margaret wasn't going to be his co-captain this week.

Emma walked up the gangplank, her new (not-so-binding) outfit flowing in the gentle breeze. The leather, while sexy as all hell, wasn't quite appropriate with the kids and, in her words,  _hurt like a bitch against burns_. So they found some vaguely old-timey stuff at a Salvation Army the previous week, and Emma was rocking it like no one else on this Earth could. But, then again, she looked good in anything. 

(Or nothing.)

"Reporting for duty, Captain Jones!" she called, saluting excitedly as she approached him.

"Good morning, my love," he crooned, reaching out for her hand and dropping a kiss on her forehead. 

"You better get all that affection out of your system, buddy. No PDA in front of the kids."

"I'll behave, Captain Swan."

She chuckled and hugged him tighter, her ear pressing against his chest so closely she had to be able to hear his heart stuttering.

"We did it, Killian."

"Did what?"

"All of it? I mean, we found each other. And we built  _this_  together." She gestured around the ship at the activity stations and the snacks. "I just - I always thought I'd stay at least half-lost. Even after I had Ruby, Mary Margaret, David, a job I was damn good at. I just - I never expected this.  _You_."

"I never expected you, either, love. Especially not, well, the way we happened."

"It's a unique story, I'll give you that," Emma laughed, her cheeks flushing as if she were remembering the many embarrassments along the way. 

"I wouldn't trade it for anything," Killian promised her, bending down for one last kiss on the lips before the pack of kids descended upon them and sucked away all their energy for the next 8 hours. 

"Me neither."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only an epilogue left! And the epilogue of this is my favorite thing ever, if I'm being honest. But, you know, I wrote it. So I damn well better like it. Anyway, thanks so much for reading! My apologies that the posting schedule turned to crap. Life can be a jerk. But this story and all of you make that jerk-ish life less sucky. So thanks : )


	27. Knock, Knock

So many things get easier the older you get, the more life experience you have.

Moving is not one of those things.

Despite having more money, more help, more space, and more time… moving still fucking sucked.

In fact, if it weren’t for the bitter memories of filling up the last house from scratch, Emma would just burn all _this_ shit and start over. But that was an overreaction. She was just stressed. Moving did that to you.

And kids did that to you, too.

The business had been _great_. In the last year, she and Killian had invested in another whole ship and small crew. They’d been on the water nearly every good-weather day with some kind of touring group, and spent the entire off-season taking classes and attending conventions and getting all kinds of educational certificates and accolades.

Schools from towns a hundred miles away were booking trips with them. The summer camps had waiting lists a mile long. And finally – _finally_ – Emma had been able to work out a grant deal that allowed the kids who _couldn’t_ afford the camp to actually attend.

To say she’d been riding a high for the last 365 days would sound like an overstatement, but it still felt deeply _true_.

She and Killian still had their share of problems. Killian nearly kicked her out of the house a few times (exaggeration) over her inability to put her clothes back in their closet and Emma had a few mild meltdowns over Killian not closing the shower curtain when he left the bathroom ( _do you want mold, Killian?!_ ), but they were happy. Their life was successful, joyful, beautiful, and now – _growing_.

“How did we decide to transport the mugs, love?” Killian called from the kitchen, his Captain Hook mug in one hand and Emma’s Princess one in the other.

“Shit ton of bubble wrap, I guess?” she called back, still trying to pack away all of their photo frames without breaking anything.

She’d known when they moved into this house it was going to be a “starter home,” a place they rented until they were able to truly put down roots. She just hadn’t anticipated those roots sprouting so damn fast. But here they were, ready to upgrade from 2 bedrooms to 3, from tiny yard to acreage, from _couple_ to _family_.

It all started back in spring, their grant funding having come through and Emma celebrating by visiting the local group home that would benefit from it.  It was tough seeing that many kids without homes, without support, but their enthusiasm for the coming summer was tangible. They were so excited about the freedom of the open water that they were actually interested in _learning_ and so Emma sat down with them and started sharing some of the things they’d be covering – from the history of New England to the creatures of the ocean to how fishermen bring us home our dinner. All the kids were captivated and gathered around Emma, but two of them stood out the most for her.

Hovering near the back of the crowd and huddled together like they were riding out a storm were two young girls, enthralled in Emma’s words but seemingly afraid to come any closer.

Emma knew all too well what that felt like – without the benefit of someone to cling to.

Afterward she’d asked the director of the group home about the two of them. Ava and Anastasia had been in the group home for a few months now, their last foster home having returned them for being “too needy” and “a burden on the household.” They wouldn’t leave each other, the man explained, not after having gotten separated from their parents just before they were murdered by some kind of drug lord.

Their parents hadn’t been perfect, obviously messed up with some troubled and dangerous people, but they’d been loving parents, dedicated to giving their girls a good life, one better than they’d had. Emma could respect that desire (while simultaneously wanting to punch them for having put their children in this situation). Ava and Ana didn’t have any other family, their parents having been an orphan and a runaway themselves, and so the girls just drifted through life, seemingly unwanted.

Emma couldn’t have it.

So she went home that afternoon and told Killian about them, determined to find them someone who could help.

“We could contact CASA? With a Court Appointed Special Advocate, they’re far more likely to get adopted,” Emma offered, her fingers busily tapping away on her phone.

“Or we could do the obvious,” Killian said after a long pause.

“The obvious?” Emma had echoed, clearly needing some further cues as to what was apparently right in front of her.

“ _We_ could foster them.”

And so the next day they’d applied to be foster parents. When they indicated they were interested in fostering the girls, they began doing weekly visits with them, allowing them to gauge if it would be a good fit.

At first they were beyond shy. They hardly spoke and when they did they seemed to be afraid that what they said had been the wrong thing. Or something. But Killian and Emma just kept coming, kept telling them stories of their times on the ship, of their painful pasts, of the things they liked to do for fun on the weekends when they weren’t sailing. Bit by bit the girls started sharing more of themselves. At first everything was framed as “we.” No matter which of them spoke – usually Ava, though – it was always a collective answer. _We love dogs_. _We have a red wooden sled. We’ve never had homemade pizza_. But gradually they began to cling to one another less, to speak about something they liked individually.

Ava, it seemed, was just a little bit more like Emma. She was very physical – loved sports and adventure. Anastasia, on the other hand, was very analytical. She was good with numbers and liked to make plans. A lot like Killian.

Every week’s visit proved more and more that they could do this. They could be foster parents to these 8 and 10 year old girls.

And so, just as summer was beginning, the girls gathered their black trash bags full of what belongings they’d kept and they stood outside the group home waiting for Killian and Emma. When they arrived, Emma promptly opened the trunk of the car and pulled two different sets of luggage – purple for Ava and pink for Anastasia – and insisted they transfer their things, leaving behind that black garbage bag forever.

“But Emma, I might need it again,” Anastasia mumbled, hesitating to pick up her new luggage.

“Sweetheart, this is yours now. No matter where you go, you’ll take this with you. The things you own are _yours_ and they’re absolutely not trash. Your stuff matters and you matter.

Ana was quiet, playing with the blue drawstrings on the garbage bag and scraping her feet against the sidewalk. “I don’t want to have to go anywhere again,” she finally said.

“And we’re hoping you won’t have to,” Killian added from behind her, his arms full of Ava’s things as she packed them into her new suitcase.

It was certainly an adjustment having two more people in the house. Dinners were a total fiasco, some days, Killian still trying to figure out portions and who liked what. Emma decided they should invest in a dishwasher, a convenience they didn’t think they should splurge on when it was just the two of them. But now the dishes would pile up like crazy and it just wasn’t worth all the effort to hand wash several days’ worth at a time. So they caved.

They bought a lot of things that summer. A swing set for their small back yard. The cutest bunkbed set you’d ever seen (yes, it was shaped like a ship and yes, they were that cliché).

Ava and Ana loved their room, decorating it in every color you could imagine with pictures of animals and boats and pop singers all over. They were still fairly shy and at times uncertain of their place in the home, but they continued to open up every day they spent in the Swan/Jones household.

Their friends had all been _so_ supportive. Robin and Regina often came over to visit, bringing pizza and video games with them. Belle would, predictably, bring them books, but she also offered to take them for rides in her police car (at first, that had upset them – the last time they’d seen police vehicles was their parents’ death. But Belle was determined to show them the good side of it all, and it seemed she’d won them over). Even Will enjoyed their company, his own humor leaning toward the immature side giving him a little boost in conversation. And Ruby – she would Skype them and talk about Seattle and beg them all to come and visit (you know, after Killian and Emma were removed from the no-fly list).

No one was happier than Mary Margaret and David. Constantly exhausted with their infant, they loved spending time with kids who actually _spoke_ and the two of them would “babysit” often when both Killian and Emma were needed on their ships.

Mostly they’d started taking turns leading the groups, insistent that the girls be with them as often as possible. So much so that the girls actually participated in every single age-appropriate excursion they offered. At first they’d been part of the learning groups, completing the activities with the “class,” but eventually they graduated to being Killian and Emma’s little helpers, aiding the other students as _they_ learned.

It had been simply amazing to watch them blossom like that, all in the span of a few months.

“Can you believe this is our life now?” Emma had whispered one night, tucked away in their bed in the wee hours of the morning.

“Aye, I can. I think it’s what I’ve always wanted, love. If you can believe _that_.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They asked the girls if they could adopt them on a Sunday. Killian had made sure his ship wasn’t booked for anything that day, and they’d gone sailing on a purely non-work adventure, Emma and him showing Ava how to steer and Anastasia how to tie knots. Once they’d found a good, calm spot of open ocean, Killian had dropped anchor and sat the girls down, Emma nervously clinging to his arm.

“We were wondering…” Killian began, looking back and forth between the now even-more-nervous-than-Emma children.

“We want to adopt you!” Emma shouted, unable to allow that fearful look in her girls’ eyes any longer.

(She knew the feeling of waiting for someone to tell you they were sending you back. Doing it nicely or not – it didn’t really matter to a lost girl. It hurt all the same. And bracing for it was a pain all its own.)

“Yes!” Ava screamed, jumping up and into Emma’s arms. The two of them were giggling and hugging and purely ecstatic – until they realized that Anastasia hadn’t said a word.

“Ana, sweetheart, is that OK? Do you want us to be your home?” Killian asked, kneeling in front of the still-shocked, scared kid.

“But… are you sure? What if you leave us?”

“They’re not leaving, Ana! Stop being such a baby,” Ava snapped.

“Mom and dad weren’t going to leave us either!” Anastasia returned, her face flushed and her arms shaking.

It wasn’t like them to fight and it had nearly _broken_ Emma to watch, but emotions came out in odd ways. It had to play out as it would.

“They never promised that, you know. But Emma and Killian _promised_. And they don’t break promises. Right?” Ava looked to Killian, her eyes boring into his.

“Never.”

Damn, what a difference a couple years could make.

-

Paperwork.

_Paperwork_ was the fucking worst.

Killian’s hand was cramped from all the forms, the signing, the checklists, the mortgages and loans and adoption papers and marriage licenses.

Yep, marriage licenses. You’d think a committed couple who owned a successful business together could adopt a couple of kids with no trouble, but, you know, you’d be wrong. They wanted proof of all kinds of things, including “stability.” Which apparently meant _married_.

So he’d been robbed of the grand proposal he’d always envisioned, settling instead for an exasperated, “well I guess we’ll get married then,” in the uncomfortable chairs at the lawyer’s office.

“How romantic,” Emma had grumbled, making Killian feel even worse about himself than he already did. But, in the end, they knew it didn’t matter. They were going to be together always, were already partners and were now going to be a team – them and their girls (and hopefully a dog, once they moved into the bigger house).

They decided on a courthouse wedding, planning it for three days later (they had to get the blasted paperwork in order). Telling their friends hadn’t been a fun task – the men’s horror at a lack of bachelor party quite comical – but they were supportive in the end (of course).

So supportive, in fact, that they all showed up. To the least impressive wedding in all of time and space.

And he meant _all_ of them showed up. When Emma and Killian and Ava and Anastasia opened the courthouse doors and started walking down the marble hallway, they were greeted by Mary Margaret, David, baby Leo, Regina, Belle, Will, Robin, Ruby, and Whale – all leaned against the wall as there simply wasn’t enough seating in such a small space.

The magistrate led them to a tiny room, certainly not suited for 14 people, and proceeded to marry the leather-clad couple in a 5-minute ceremony that culminated in a quick kiss on the lips and a giant family group hug that the magistrate remarked was the oddest thing he’d yet seen at one of these proceedings.

( _Odd_ _was kind of their thing_ , Killian had thought.)

Rings exchanged and house bought, the big old friends-turned-family began the grueling process of lugging all of their shit from one place to the next, Emma and Killian finally finding their permanent home (you know, the literal, physical kind. Metaphorically they’d obviously found that long ago in one another – and now in Anastasia and Ava).

Emma had been cranky as all hell. Moving was awful, he, of course, agreed, but Emma was simply not having it.

“Emma, where do you think we should put the linens?”

“Ugh, I don’t care!” She’d snapped in return, slumping against the bookshelf she was currently emptying.

“Come on, Em! I know it’s awful, but we’re going to have a _yard_!” Ava called, proudly dragging around her suitcase, despite the fact they wouldn’t be leaving officially until the next day.

“And a dog! Don’t forget the dog,” Anastasia added, her nose still firmly planted in the latest Hardy Boys book Belle had brought over.

“Of course,” Emma had chuckled, reaching out for Ava and pulling her into a bear hug. “Can’t forget that.”

The next morning was an absolute mess. Really, he’d assumed that more help meant fewer problems, but it was seeming that the _opposite_ was true. Too many people had too many different organizational strategies and opinions and attitudes and complaints and was it actually possible to hate your own belongings _this much_?

But they’d survived it. All their crap made it to the new house – the anchor-clad pillows and afghans only having fallen in a _small_ mud puddle on the way – and the family was what you would call _pooped_.

“Can we clear off the couch and watch a movie, Killy?” Killian grinned at Ava’s new nickname for him, but his face fell when he realized he couldn’t actually tell her yes.

“I’ve no clue where the DVD player is, love. And we don’t have wi-fi yet, so no Netflix.”

“I could read us a book!” Ana offered, Ava groaning (comically).

“Or Killy could tell us a story,” Emma said, her eyes alight with warmth and _glee_ , despite her exhaustion. She leaned into him and he gave her a tight squeeze, reveling in their new life.

“Once upon a time there lived a pirate who worked on _Wall Street_ ,” he began, his girls all working together to clear off the couch for them to pile onto it.

“What’s Wall Street?” Anastasia interjected, tossing a box of Emma’s old files into the corner.

“Oh, a terrible place full of greedy people.”

“Killian, don’t vilify finance for them already. Anastasia might turn out to be a hell of a broker someday.”

“Swan, _language_ ,” Killian gasped, earning chuckles from his girls.

The four of them plopped onto the couch, Anastasia curling into Emma and Ava sitting directly on Killian lap, Emma intertwining her fingers with Killian’s as he continued his story. “The pirate had all the treasure in the world, but then he lost a _great_ love, and he thought his life was going to be empty forever.”

“But it’s not, right?” Ana nervously interjected (always the interrupter, his little girl).

“Don’t worry, my love, this story has the happiest of happy endings.”

When the story was finished and the yawning had overtaken the talking, Killian and Emma led the girls to their very own bedrooms. Not much was set up in each, of course, but their beds were made and for the first time in their lives, these girls had their own spaces.

Killian and Emma had provided that for them and the swell of pride and _love_ in his heart at that thought was something he’d never felt before. When he’d fallen in love with his feisty, beautiful, headstrong neighbor, he’d thought his heart could never have been fuller – not after she’d confessed she loved him, too. But now – now it’s like his insides had gotten bigger to make room for more feelings he’d never dreamed he’d have.

It took longer than he hoped for them to simply _find the pajama boxes_ and _set up the toiletries_ , but within the hour, the girls were all ready for bed, Emma and Killian each taking turns tucking them in.

“But I’ve never slept alone,” Ava whispered, clutching a pillow. “Ana’s always been with me. I could always call her name and she’d answer me and I’d know we were going to be OK.”

“Oh, my little love. She’s not far,” Killian soothed, a perfect remedy popping into mind.

_How appropriate this should come full circle_ , he thought.

“You know, Emma and I used to live apart. And we didn’t like being alone either.”

“I know. You were neighbors, though, so you weren’t far away.”

“Exactly. And now so are you and your sister. She’s just through this wall, you know,” Killian said, his hand resting on the wall behind Ava’s head. “And she’s probably feeling scared and sad just like you. So you can reach back just like this and give the wall a little _knock, knock_ , letting Ana know you’re here.”

“Like this, Killy?” Ava balled her fist and hesitantly tapped her knuckles against the wall.

He couldn’t hear any conversation or movement from the other side – their house had properly insulated walls and all – but the return _knock, knock_ came quickly.

“See? Ana’s OK, over there with Emma. And you’re OK. We’re all together now and always will be.”

“We’re a little pirate family?” Ava questioned, the hope in her eyes making his heart swell just that much more.

“Aye, love. A perfect little pirate family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for joining me on this amazing journey. I love this story and I'm so proud of it and so happy that others have read and enjoyed it. I'm sad it's over, of course, but I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy about where it ended up, so I'd say it's more good than bad. I'll be adding this chapter (and the previous) to my tumblr at @charmingturkeysandwich as soon as I finish the photos for them! But I couldn't wait to post the chapter here. Thank you again if you've read, left kudos, commented, bookmarked - you've made my heart happy.


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